The Journey
by Gabrielle Lawson
Summary: Buck must choose between life and death. Is a chance at happiness in one small corner of the world reason enough to endure the guaranteed hardships of life? COMPLETE!
1. Chapter One

A/N: There are two possible historical inaccuracies in this story. One is minor and the other would drastically alter a major plot point. I have tried to find out if they are inaccuracies, but have been unable to prove it. Which is both good and bad. Good in that I don't have to change the story. Bad in that I do like to be historically accurate. Be that as it may, the Young Riders, as shown on TV, was not always historically accurate either.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters you've heard of before. The series and setting aren't mine either. But the situation is of my own devising.

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Prologue**

_Dear Buck,_

I hope this letter finds you well. My father has mentioned you in his letters. Well, not you, but Teaspoon and the other riders. That's how I know you are not in Sweetwater anymore. My father writes me once a month. I never answer his letters. Maybe I should, but it hurts to know how much he hates our peoples. I can't separate that from the love he sends in his letters. He doesn't want to know that part of me that is Lakota.

No one does. Aunt Sarah especially. She took my mocassins and doe-skin dress and threw them into the fire. She forbids me to pray to the spirits and drags me with her to church every Sunday. That's one of the only times I'm ever allowed to leave the house. I don't even go to school. Aunt Sarah hired a nun to teach me here. She has taught me to read and write better, but she has also made me memorize the names of all the apostles. We're currently working on all the saints. It makes me angry. Their Jesus talks about love in the Bible, over and over, but they want to kill our people. And they call us heathens!

That's what they call me. Under their breath or to my face. Because I argue with them. Because I defend the Lakota. I tell them Indians aren't savages. I tell them Indians value honor and kindness and know nothing of greed. Then I get locked in my room.

Buck, I have tried to make a life for myself, here. I really have. But I can't forget Running Bear or Two Ponies. I can't forget my time with the Lakota. I can't shake off my spirit and throw it into the fire with my doe-skin dress. I will not forget that I am Lakota.

Because of that, no one wants me here. They want a pure white Jenny Tompkins, not Eagle Feather. I can't stay. I never get to walk by a lake and pick berries or stand in the sun just to feel its rays on my skin. I can't live my life alone like this, with only Aunt Sarah and the nun for company. No white man will want me. The few that have come calling--with Aunt Sarah's permission, of course--have said such terrible things about the Indians. I know they all feel that way. I wouldn't want them either.

I miss you. I know we only knew each other for a short time, but I feel that you understood me in a way no one has since I left the Lakota. You love your Kiowa people even though you are not with them. You feel the sting when the others in town say they should all be killed. You probably get the same reaction from white women that I do from the men.

I realize this is very forward of me, but I felt I had to try. Either way, I'm leaving. Aunt Sarah gave me a silver hand mirror that had belonged to my mother. I miss her, but I know her spirit is not in such a thing. I snuck out through the window last night and sold it. I now have money for the stage. It leaves tomorrow and will take five days to reach St. Joseph. If you'll have me, please meet me there. If you don't come, I'll understand. I'll find someplace, but I won't go back to Aunt Sarah.

**Chapter One**

Buck folded the letter quickly and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt. He was too late, though. Lou had seen it.

"You got a letter?" she asked as she stepped up on the lower rail of the corral fence. She hooked her arms over the top rail and looked up at him with those big doe-eyes.

"It happens," Buck said, trying to throw off her curiosity.

"I didn't mean it like that," Lou said, and Buck almost felt sorry that he'd snapped at her. "It's just you don't get them that often."

Buck sighed at her understatement. He'd only ever received one letter since joining the Pony Express. Or before that.

"Is it from Camille?" Lou asked, prying again.

"No," Buck replied, hoping to leave it at that.

"Aw, come on, Buck," Lou pleaded. "I don't exactly get a lot of mail either."

"It's personal," Buck told her before he jumped down off the corral fence and headed for the bunkhouse. He'd come out here to read the letter in private, but he should have known just having a letter at all would bring questions from someone. And given Lou's new status as wife and ex-rider for the Pony Express, her boredom just made the letter too tempting.

"Can't you at least tell me who it's from?" she tried, chasing after him. "I'll do your chores."

"My chores are done," Buck answered. Lou, however, remained on his heels, like one of the dogs in the Kiowa village after a successful hunt.

"Tomorrow then?" she offered again.

* * *

Lou followed after him, silently cursing the skirts that slowed the movement of her legs. Buck was so much taller. He could cover ground much faster than her. But she stayed with him. Lately, Buck was the one thing that kept her from sliding into the despair of total boredom.

It wasn't that she was unhappy being married to Kid. She wasn't. She loved him. But it was a big change going from Pony Express Rider to wifely duties. She'd gotten used to the excitement of the speed, the danger of riding. Cooking and cleaning just couldn't compare. Especially when Kid was off on a ride and she was stuck at the station.

She'd watched Buck grow more and more sullen after Ike's death, especially as the Express started to wind down and the war back East to wind up. They'd lost more friends, to the war or to death. And the foundation, the glue that had brought the rest of them together, was beginning to wear out. They all knew the end of the Express was coming. They just didn't know when.

Lou had had a lot of time to think lately--she'd found housework to be quite conducive to thinking. Everyone else had something or someone. With the Express business dwindling, Teaspoon was spending more time marshalling. Rachel had the school and helping other ladies around town. Jimmy spent all his off hours with Rosemary. Kid had Lou and the Express. Lou only had Kid and Buck only had the Express.

So Lou had decided, for each of their sakes, that she and Buck should also have each other. She needed a confidant and Buck had always been a great listener. He needed a friend, a close one, like Ike had been. So Lou had taken upon herself the task of loosening the armor Buck kept around him. She knew there was a lot more to him than he let them see, like an iceberg that lets only its tip float above the surface of the water and keeps its bulk below the waves.

"How about it?" she asked, reminding him of her offer.

He stopped and turned toward her. "Why is it so important to you?"

She searched his eyes carefully to see if he was angry, but she didn't see any suspicion there. "I wanna be your friend," she answered, realizing too late how silly that sounded, like a school girl wanting to play after the bell rang.

"You _are_ my friend," he told her. "But that doesn't mean you have to read my mail."

Lou sighed. He was going to be hard to crack. But then, she'd known that before she started. "I want to be _more_ of a friend."

Buck sat down at the table and took off his hat. "The kind that reads my mail?" he asked, raising one eyebrow in mock confusion.

Lou couldn't help but chuckle. At least he wasn't mad. Yet. "No," she told him, forcing herself back to seriousness. "The kind that you talk to. The kind that knows what's going on in your life."

Now he sighed and looked down at the table. "You do know what's going on in my life. I ride the mail. I do chores. What else is there?"

Lou retrieved the plate of sandwiches she'd made earlier from the counter by the sink and sat down across from him. "Plenty," she replied. "I hardly know anything about you from before the Express. Like how you grew up or where you learned English. You never tell those things. I think Ike knew though."

Buck had started to eat one of the sandwiches, but now he tossed it back onto the plate and stood up. Lou knew she'd pushed too hard. "You can't be a friend like Ike," he snapped. Then he added, in a softer voice after he'd turned away, "No one can."

Lou got up and rushed to where he was looking out the window. "I know. I'm sorry. I don't want to replace him. But I want to know why he was special to you. Why you meant so much to him. I want to know you like he did."

Buck didn't turn back to her. His voice was quiet, unsure. "None of that is in this letter."

Lou watched him carefully, to see if he'd stiffen or move further away. "No, but whatever is in that letter made you happy. I could tell."

Buck's shoulders softened and he turned around, leaning back on the window sill. "You're going to pester me all evening, aren't you?"

Lou realized that, by giving in, he was really putting her off. Still, she'd pushed too hard already. She was grateful for even this small tidbit. "I've got nothin' better to do and no one to stop me," she teased back. Kid was delivering a special pouch to Fort Kearney and wouldn't return for another three days. Jimmy was off on a run. Teaspoon was in Seneca for a trial, and Rachel was helping Mrs. Nelson with her new baby. Lou was the only one at the station, except Buck, and he had a run the next day.

With a flourish, Buck pulled the letter from his breast pocket and handed it to her before retaking his seat at the table.

Lou was suspicious. He'd given it up too easily. Still, she was curious. She opened the letter carefully and focused on the words. And they made absolutely no sense! "What is this? Kiowa?" she asked, assuming Camille had written out the Indian words with English letters.

Buck shook his head. "Lakota."

* * *

Lou was frozen for a moment, and he knew he'd surprised her. She finally moved, walking slowly over to the table where he was. Her mouth still hung open, all of her playfulness gone. Buck wasn't sure why he'd given in. It really wasn't just to stop her pestering him. Telling her the language would only make her more curious, not less.

But, to be honest, he had missed having someone to talk to--to really talk to--now that Ike was gone. And Lou was maybe the one that could understand him best, stuck as she was in a man's world that wouldn't allow her to play an equal part and still be herself. This letter, then, would be a test. He still didn't feel ready to open up every secret, but her reaction would tell him how far he could go in trusting her.

"Eagle Feather?" she breathed as she sat down, and Buck liked that she hadn't said 'Jenny Tompkins'. Then the shock on her face disappeared into a dazzling smile. She handed the letter back to him. "What does she say? How is she?"

"She's unhappy," Buck told her, carefully choosing his words. "Her aunt is trying to force her to change. She's going to leave."

Lou's smile left and she now looked concerned. Except that there was a certain gleam in her eye that he couldn't quite figure out. "Where will she go?"

Buck took a long breath, trying to prepare himself for whatever reaction Lou might have. "She wants to come here."

"To live with her father?"

Buck watched her closely. He shook his head.

It took a moment but Lou's eyes grew wide. She took a quick breath in surprise. "_Here_ here?" she asked, pointing down hard on the table.

Buck nodded and left it at that for now. Her reaction would not only tell him about her, but it would also give him an idea how the others would take the news. If indeed, he decided to bring Eagle Feather here.

Lou started to stand up in her excitement. "That's wonder--" She stopped and dropped back into her seat. She folded her hands on the table and forced the excitement out of her face. Buck appreciated that. "When is she coming?"

Buck took another deep breath. "She may not come at all."

Lou's shoulders sagged. "Why not?"

"Because it's up to me," Buck told her. "I'm supposed to meet her stage in St. Joe tomorrow afternoon. If I'm not there, she'll find a place for herself somewhere else."

Lou reached over and took his hand. "But you'll be there, right? You were happy to get the letter. You liked her. She can appreciate you, all of you. Why wouldn't you go?"

Buck stood up and walked back to the window. On the one hand, he felt just like Lou said, and he was encouraged that she hadn't teased him or balked at the idea. But, as usual, things weren't always as easy as one wanted. "It's not that simple, Lou. I hardly know her. She only knew me for what? A week? And what would the others think? The townspeople? Tompkins? She's his daughter and you know what he thinks of me."

"The townspeople don't matter," Lou said, jumping up behind him. "And Tompkins can go to hell. The others will be happy if you're happy. She's leaving her aunt one way or the other. If she comes here, you'll get a chance to know each other, see if it will work. If she goes somewhere else, you'll never know."

Buck wanted to negate all his arguments as easily as she did. He hadn't wanted Eagle Feather to leave when she had. He'd felt a connection with her. And Lou was right. While other white women ignored him or turned away from him in disgust, Eagle Feather had appreciated him, Indian half and all. She loved her people like he loved his. How many chances did he have with a woman like that? But his fears didn't fall away as easily as that. Buck was careful to try and avoid trouble when he could. It found him easily enough on its own. But this would just be asking for trouble. Tompkins would be beside himself, and the rest of the town would back him. And Teaspoon, Rachel, and the others might see it as too forward. It generally wasn't the white way to go about things, though it wasn't unheard of in the Indian world.

"I have responsibilities," he said as an excuse, though he also hoped Lou would shoot it down as she had his other arguments.

"I can do your chores," she offered quickly. "It's nothing I didn't do before I was married."

Buck turned around and met her gaze. She was sincere--he could tell by her eyes, the energetic way she stood there, like a rabbit waiting for just the right moment to bound away. "I have a run tomorrow."

"I'll take it!" She had barely let him finish his sentence. "Buck, you've got to do this. You deserve a chance to be happy. I'll take the run. I miss it, anyway."

Her excitement was starting to spill over into him. Maybe it would be like she said. It didn't have to mean love forever. It could be a chance though, one he'd hoped to have back in Sweetwater before Eagle Feather had rode away on the stage.

But there were still obstacles. "What about Kid?"

* * *

Lou felt her face flush hot. "I'm not some fragile China doll!" she snapped and held up her left hand. "I didn't forget how to ride or shoot just because I put this ring on."

She let out her breath slowly. It wasn't Buck's fault Kid was so irritatingly over-protective. "Besides," she said, more calm now, "Kid's not here. He won't even have to know. If you leave right away, you can meet the stage and be back by Saturday." Her mind had been racing since he first mentioned the stage, working out just how it could be done. "The run will put me back here Sunday morning. Kid won't be back until that afternoon."

"What about Jimmy?"

He was stubborn, but he had hesitated in speaking just then. She could see it in his eyes, a glimpse of the vulnerability he hid so well. He was arguing, but he wanted to believe it could be done. And she wanted to help him.

"Jimmy is blind to everything around him these days," she reminded him. "We have to remind him when _he_ has a ride. And don't worry about the others. Teaspoon's not due back until Sunday either, and Rachel was gonna be gone at least that long. It's just you and me. Until you get back with Eagle Feather, of course."

He sat down on one of the bunks and clasped his hands together. "You really think this is a good idea? That it could work?"

Lou plopped herself down beside him. "Not if it was just you," she teased as she took his arm. "But with me as your co-conspirator, nothing can go wrong!"

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Two**

Buck readied his horse, still unsure, but excited now about the trip and seeing Eagle Feather again. He tightened his saddle and then led the horse out of the barn. Lou was waiting for him with some provisions which she tucked into his saddle bags. "You sure you don't need the buckboard?"

Buck shook his head. "It'd be too slow. Besides, she can ride. I'll pick up another horse in St. Joe."

Lou stroked the horse's neck. "Okay. Be careful. You know there's been trouble lately."

"I know," Buck sighed. Indian trouble. It tore him in two every time he heard those words. A couple of farms had been attacked recently by the Arapaho, who had apparently decided that they had a golden opportunity to get rid of the whites while the Army was busy back east. "You, too. You're the one riding right through Indian territory. I'm going east, remember?"

She smiled. "I remember. And I'm looking forward to seeing her again, so I'll be sure to get back here safe and sound. 'Sides, I don't want Kid nagging at me any more'n you do." She patted the horse. "Now get goin'. You got a stage to catch." She reached up for his shoulder. Buck tried not to laugh as she had to go up on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek.

It was about two in the afternoon when he left. The sun was high, just over his shoulders, warming the back of his coat a little. Winter would be coming soon. He could feel it in the air that rushed by his face and hands as the horse charged across the plains. She loved to run and he loved to let her. But they had a fairly long trip to make and with the exception of a camp for the night, they'd be riding straight through. He didn't want to overwork her and wear her out. He kept her at a steady, swift pace, but below the real speed he knew she was capable of.

The sun moved away from him as he rode, beyond his shoulders to his back. The sky above deepened and the air grew colder. Buck knew he'd have to stop for camp in an hour or so.

He slowed the horse as he approached a shallow stream and then stopped her so she could drink. He slipped off her back and decided he was thirsty as well. He pulled his canteen down and took a drink. While he waited for his horse, he took in his surroundings. The Kansas plains were flat and stark for the most part. But near the stream there were plenty of trees whose leaves had now dried and turned shades of red, brown, and yellow. The wind blew softly, rustling the drying leaves, loosening some of them from their branches' hold. Soon these trees would be bare, the grass brown and withered. Another year was moving toward its end, its death. Buck swallowed a pang of hurt with that thought. Ike's face had met him in the leaves just then.

He turned from the trees and focused on the trickling water. The stream babbled and trickled on, oblivious to the change of seasons. Only winter could catch its attention, freezing it in its journey until spring set it free once more. He thought of his own journey and what awaited him in St. Joe. A woman, but not just any woman. A woman who shared his heritage, who could understand him and accept him as he was. There was still enough risk to worry him. She may not love him or him her. But it was a chance, and that was more than he usually got. The colors of the leaves he turned from were reflected in the glistening stream as it flowed, and he was reminded of the circle that life was. Yes, there was death. But there was also life, and life, like these autumn colors, could be beautiful. These were the colors of his people, of the Indians of the Plains, the colors he remembered from his mother's village. The colors and the memories comforted him.

He almost wished it was later in the day. He would have liked to camp here in this peaceful, untroubled place. He reached over to replace the canteen, but it flew out of his grip as he felt something hard and fast pull back on his right shoulder. He fell slowly, like in a dream, and became aware of the pain and heat before he hit the ground. Only then did his mind tell him he'd heard a shot.

_I've been shot!_ his mind screamed as time rushed to catch up with him again. The second shot came right before he could get his gun out of his holster. The horse, agitated already, became frantic, rearing up and stomping nearly on top of him. He saw red on her neck, and she stumbled and fell, collapsing to her knees on his left hip and chest. Her weight pinned his gun down, with his hand still on the handle. Warm, dark blood spilled onto his chest as the mare struggled to get up. Each movement crushed him beneath her. He felt his ribs crack and move and found it hard to breathe. He tried to push her off with his right arm, but it wouldn't move where he wanted it to. His left wrist snapped with a sharp pop, but he couldn't even get enough breath to scream.

Another shot rang out, followed by a sickening thud, and the horse stopped struggling and fell over. Buck was able to roll just in time to keep from getting caught beneath her. He heard laughter and tried to get his gun free. But he couldn't close his fingers around it. His shoulder burned beneath him, and he fell back again into the bloodied pebbles that lined the stream.

It had happened so quickly, he'd barely had to time to realize what had happened at all. "Don't move, Injun," someone sneered. The voice had come from the direction of Buck's feet. He tried to look that way, but his head felt heavy, and his chest hurt when he tried to lean up.

"That second shot was meant for you," the voice continued. "The third, well, I couldn't leave the poor creature to suffer, could I?"

Buck tried to listen past the pounding of his heart that echoed in his skull. He stopped struggling with his breath and concentrated on the babble of the stream. It sung to him, like his mother's lullabies when he was a child. Time slowed again and he could feel the footsteps in the pebbles as the man approached. The leaves cried out beneath the man's feet, until finally Buck's eyes could see him.

"You're not all Indian, are ya?" the man asked, but the sound of his voice floated beneath the surface of the stream. "Half-breed, I bet. I bet you told 'em where we was so they could find us. You speak English, half-breed?"

Buck tried to take the breath to answer, but the air resisted his efforts. "I ride--" he gasped out, "for the Pony Express."

The man looked over at the horse lying dead half in the water. "I don't see no mail bag."

There wasn't one, of course. "Special pick-up," Buck told him, not quite lying, "in St. Joe." He turned his head toward the horse. "Branded," he said, hoping the man would understand.

He did. "Ya prolly stole that horse."

"No," Buck choked out before another wave of pain shook through him. He couldn't think clearly enough to come up with another argument or piece of evidence to show the man he was being truthful. But then, Buck was fairly certain by now that the man had no real interest in the truth. He still trained his gun on Buck, though Buck was lying prone on the ground beside his fallen horse. Buck knew he was helpless. Neither of his arms would cooperate to hold a weapon, and the man had not even tried to take Buck's gun or knife.

Buck wanted to let unconsciousness take him, but he forced himself to look at the man. He was of average height and had a stocky build. But his arms, bare as they were to the shoulders even in this crisp weather, were muscular. His shirt, no more than an undershirt, was dirty with sweat and soot. He sported a short, unkempt beard and a loose wide-brimmed hat. He wore a Colt on his hip and carried a long musket in his hands.

Buck wondered why the man didn't just finish him off like he had the horse. "What do you want?" he asked, though by now his mouth felt like cotton, and it was hard to form the words.

"What do I want?" the man repeated. He stepped closer and knelt down at Buck's side, finally taking the gun from Buck's holster. Buck gasped as the movement brushed against his arm. "I want every blasted one of you to burn in hell, that's what. I want you to suffer like I did after you Indians slaughtered my family."

The sun was setting behind the man, its last few rays sprinkling in through the leaves on the trees. To Buck's pain-clouded mind, he looked evil, bathed in dark shadows and lit by red light. Buck felt his skin prickle with cold and fear. "Arapaho," he tried to argue. "I'm Kiowa."

"Indian is Indian," the man spat back. "And there ain't no good one 'cept a dead one."

He holstered his own gun and reached over to get Buck's knife from the sheath on his boot. Buck thought of trying to kick the man, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Where would he go even if he could manage to get away? His horse was dead, his ribs were broken, and his arms were practically useless.

The man got up and walked around Buck to his horse. He used Buck's knife to cut the reins off the bridle. That done, he apparently had no more use for the knife, because he threw it down on the ground.

Buck knew what was coming next. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the stream, listening desperately for the water and its soothing song. He felt fire in his shoulder as the man moved his right arm, putting a strain in his shoulder. Buck clenched his teeth to keep from screaming, but he couldn't stop the moan that escaped his throat. He forgot to breathe when the man lifted his left arm.

But that was nothing compared to the tying. The man hesitated a moment at Buck's left wrist and then tied the leather rein above the wrist, just over the break. After pulling the leather strap tight. Buck's voice pushed past his pride and ripped through his throat.

"Don't die on me yet, Injun," the man told him, but Buck could barely hear him.

The man grabbed Buck by the collar and pulled him to a seated position. Buck cried out again as jagged bone pushed into his side.

"On your feet!" the man ordered. Buck heard his voice but the words made no sense. His head dropped back and he saw the dark blue sky past the shadowy leaves of the trees. And then he saw nothing.

It was dark when Buck woke again. Either that or his eyes wouldn't work. He shivered, feeling the cold creep up under his coat. It found the wet places on his chest and shoulders and slipped inside him. It forced him awake, lifted his thoughts past the pain to where he was.

It was dark, but not so dark that his eyes couldn't adjust. He was lying on the ground. He could feel the dirt against the side of his face. His shoulder was caught beneath him. His other hand throbbed below the leather strap that kept his arms together.

If he laid still, did nothing but breathe lightly, the pain in his ribs was bearable. But he couldn't be still. What had happened was still fuzzy to him, but he remembered enough. And his bound hands were enough to remind him that he was in trouble. He closed his eyes again and listened carefully.

Crickets. All around him. Beyond them was the wind. It whistled lightly, close by, but he couldn't feel it. He was in some sort of structure, something small. Past the wind. Footfalls, distant, not coming closer. A whinny. Horses. In his mind he heard the gunshots again, saw his horse stumble. His ribs hurt where she had crushed him.

He pushed the memory down. He needed to get away. He waited a few seconds more, listening for the man who had shot him and killed his horse. But there was nothing beyond the horses he heard.

It hurt, but Buck bit back the pain. He held his breath to keep from making a sound as he pushed himself up by his elbows. His head swam when he sat up, and he had to wait again, releasing his breath slowly through his mouth. He needed to cough but he resisted.

He sat back on his ankles and waited. The pain stilled back down again. Except for his hand. That was constant.

He could better see where he was now. He was in some sort of shed. There were boxes around him and a bench to his right. He couldn't see a door, but there had to be one. Maybe it was behind him. There had to be a barn, too, or a stable. There were horses. At least one. If he could get to it, he could get away.

He looked down at his hands. Could he even get on a horse? He had to try. Using the workbench and his elbow, he stood, fighting away the dizziness and swallowing the pain. He kept his breath shallow, to keep the pressure off his ribs as much as to keep quiet.

He turned and slowly, carefully, made his way past the boxes. He could see a sliver of moonlight on the floor. The door. He stepped up to it and listened again. Without meaning to, he leaned against the wall. It creaked as it gave way, and he cursed the sound. No time now. He had to go.

Buck pushed the door open, releasing a much louder noise from the tin shed. He could see the dark silhouette of the barn only a few yards away. Forgetting noise, he hurried to it, anxious to get to a horse.

He used his left elbow to edge the door open enough that he could get through it. He hesitated though, having noticed the house behind him. He turned, watching it, expecting the man to come charging out the door. But nothing happened. No sound, no lights. Nothing.

As he turned to go into the barn, the darkness inside became brighter. Buck turned toward the light. A lantern hung from a post near one of the horses' stalls. And the man stood beside the lantern with a pistol in his hand. Buck's pistol. He cocked it.

"Now ya fixin' to steal one of my horses, Injun?" the man asked. He was disheveled. Bits of straw clung to his clothes and hair.

Buck didn't reply. That had been his plan, but he felt it was justified. The man, whoever he was, wasn't likely to feel the same.

"I figured you might try somethin' once ya woke up," the man went on, ignoring his own question. "So I slept here in the barn." He stepped closer. "You're a crafty one. I didn't think ya had it in ya to stand after what I done. But now, I reckon I ain't done enough."

He lowered the gun and Buck almost hoped the man would let him go despite his words. But then he saw the man had something in his other hand.

The horses bucked in their stalls at the impact. Buck fell again as his right knee buckled and exploded in pain. His hands brushed against the door before he hit the ground, and his broken ribs pushed the breath from his lungs.

He heard the man though. "Now ya can't stand no more. Maybe you'll stay put so's I can get a decent night's sleep."

Again, Buck couldn't see. The pain in his knee, his arms, his ribs, flashed so brightly that he was blinded. His whole leg felt like it was on fire.

"Ya can't stay here," the man said. He sounded distant again. But his hands felt too close when they reached under Buck's shoulders and lifted him off the ground. "You're disturbin' the horses."

Buck fought to keep his one good leg under him, if only to ease the pain in the rest of him, but it was no use. The man dragged him too fast. He dumped him unceremoniously back onto the dirt and Buck, somehow, knew he was back in the shed.

"All that restin' must've given you some strength back," the man was saying. Buck thought he sounded foreign, and he was surprised to understand the man's words. "We can take care of that."

The man was back at his hands and for a moment, Buck felt relief wash down his right arm. But his left was still tied tightly and now it was yanked, twisting him around even as the man lifted him up again.

Buck was pushed back against something hard and the man went for his right arm again. Only the man's fist wrapped around his collar had kept him from dropping to the ground again, but now that was gone and Buck collapsed.

His arms hit the surface of the workbench and he screamed. He felt as if he'd been struck by lightning. His arms, hitched up behind him, kept him from reaching the relative comfort of the dirt floor. The electric pain sped from his hand and shoulder across his chest and up into his throat.

He pulled his legs back, both of them, and there was pain there, too. He forced himself up on his knees, and tried to keep his weight on his left leg. But it was hard. He had no strength anywhere else.

The man's voice was close and clear, even through the pain. "Now you ain't gettin' no rest."

TBC


	3. Chapter Three

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Three**

Lou woke up early, almost forgetting that she was alone at the station. She remembered, though, when Kid was not beside her on the bed. That realization made her miss him, but it also excited her. She had a run today.

She made herself some breakfast of scrambled eggs and bread and then got dressed. She had kept her "man" clothes even after her wedding, storing them in a trunk under the bed. She was glad she had kept them. She was so excited that she almost forgot to wear long johns under her trousers. So, when she saw them under her shirt and jacket, she had to take off the trousers and start over. She slicked her hair back on the top and pushed the sides behind her ears. She slipped into her boots and placed her hat on her head. Glasses were next, and lastly, her gun belt. She paused long enough to load her pistol and then headed out to the barn to prepare her horse.

When the rider came, she had been sitting on the bunkhouse porch for fifteen minutes, just waiting. She jumped up and ran to the middle of the yard to intercept him.

Instead of the usual pass-off, the rider, Ben Freely, pulled up short. "Lou?" he asked, his brows furrowed in confusion. "I thought you was--"

"I'm doing Buck a favor," she interrupted. She held out her hand for the pouch.

Ben hesitated, looking toward the bunkhouse as if he were hoping for help from there. "Ben Freely," Lou said, using her sternest tone, "this is nothin' new. I started ridin' with the Pony Express even before you did. Now you hand over that mochilla or you can keep right on riding that same sorry horse and see what the company says when the mail is late."

Ben's mouth turned up on one side. "Same old Lou," he grunted as he handed her the pouch.

She gave him a smile before running to her horse. "There's some eggs in the bunkhouse," she called back. "Help yourself." She started her horse off and then jumped, using the momentum to swing herself back over the horse. As if he knew this was secret signal, the horse opened up and tore out of the yard, heading out across the prairie and racing the rising sun. Lou hoped Buck was having as much fun.

* * *

Jenny Tompkins felt her stomach tighten as she climbed aboard the stage coach again. Today was the day. He'd be there or he wouldn't.

She hoped he would.

"What brings you out west?" one of the other passengers, a dapper young man who'd just joined the stage at the last stop, asked, tipping his hat to her. "You wouldn't be one of those mail order brides. You're too pretty for that."

"No," Jenny said, hoping to leave it at that. She felt no need to explain herself to the man.

"It's dangerous for a woman to be traveling alone," he said, not taking the hint. The other two passengers, an elderly couple, watched the exchange from across the way. The woman smiled softly at Jenny.

"I'm not expected in St. Joe for another two days," the young man went on. "Perhaps I could accompany you to your destination. Where did you say you were going?"

"I didn't," she told him. She didn't want him to know where she was going anyway. "And thank you, but I'll be fine."

"The West isn't a tame place, Miss. . . ." He leaned over to her, and she knew he was waiting for her to fill in the rest.

"Why is that?" she asked. She knew she shouldn't. It was still half a day's travel to reach St. Joseph. It wouldn't do any good to get kicked off now.

"I don't mean to frighten you, but there are Indians out there," he replied, "savages who'd take a pretty thing like you and do unspeakable things."

Jenny fumed and felt her face grow hot.

The young man must have mistaken the blush in her face for flirtation or fear, because he seemed encouraged now. "I wouldn't be any kind of gentleman if I didn't offer to protect you. I'm Jonathan Twyler and I'm at your service." He bowed for her, as much as he could while sitting beside her on the cramped stage. He took her hand to kiss it. "I didn't catch your name."

Jenny didn't pull her hand free, though she was angry with him. Her people were far less savage than some of the things she'd seen or been subjected to in the white man's world. "Eagle Feather," she answered sharply.

The smile fell away from Mr. Twyler's face and he dropped her hand. "I'm--I'm sorry," he stammered, "but that's an unusual name."

"It's Lakota," she told him. "And my people are not savages."

Twyler sat back in his seat and averted his eyes. The old woman now looked at her with scorn, but Jenny tried to ignore it. As long as they didn't kick her off the stage, she'd rather finish the trip in silence.

* * *

Buck was shaking when the man came back. He'd watched the morning come sometime earlier. He didn't know how long it was. He only knew it was day when before it had been night.

"Good, you're awake." The man knelt down in front of him and lifted Buck's head by the hair. "You're gonna tell me where your friends are so's I can tell the army after I'm done dealing with you."

Buck understood the words but he couldn't piece together what the man was talking about. He remembered some of it: the shooting, his horse, the barn. But it didn't make sense to him. "What friends?" he asked, wondering why the army would want the other riders.

Buck's head dropped and the weight pulled on his arms. The man and everything else disappeared for a moment until the blackness faded from his eyes. "The savages that killed my family."

"I don't know," Buck told him through clenched teeth, "anything about that."

The blow he received moved his arms in a different way. It left him dizzy. He would have fallen if not for the table.

"Sara was only six years old!" the man bellowed, striking him again. "Caleb was only nine and Jacob was fourteen. Elizabeth was a good woman, a good mother and you slaughtered her!" Each name brought another blow, but Buck had ceased to feel them. Each one was just a continuation of the agony he felt flowing from his arms, filling his chest, coursing through his legs.

His head jerked up again though he did not feel the hand in his hair. He couldn't even see the man anymore. There was only the pain.

"Where are they?" the man screamed and Buck vaguely heard the words, like a howling wind far over the plains.

"Who?" he breathed, and the pain flared again, blinding him.

* * *

St. Joseph was so different from St. Louis. St. Louis was settled and civilized--at least in the white way--all brick and white picket fences. St. Joe was settled, but it was still wild. Jenny turned her back on the stage and faced the plains, her home. If she narrowed her vision, she could forget the town behind her and follow her heart to where her brother and her father--her Sioux father--lived free still. She wished once again she'd never been found by the Army and returned to this white world. Her mother would still be alive. Her brother would grow up with a sister who loved him and she would have a father who accepted her as she was.

But she wouldn't have Buck. Buck was the one good thing to come out of the breaking of her family. She walked around the stage, scanning the faces, looking for his long brown hair, the knife in his boot, anything to identify him among the strangers here. Twyler stepped back, giving her a wide berth as she passed, but she ignored him. His disdainful look was nothing new to her. The others from the stage backed away, too, and the whispers started when the gathered townspeople asked the passengers why. The whispers didn't matter either. She didn't care what any of them thought of her. Only Buck's opinion mattered.

And her heart ached in her chest when she couldn't find him. She stood still a moment, letting the reality sink in. He didn't want her. Tears threatened to fill her eyes, but she pushed them away, punishing herself for raising her hopes. She'd been foolish to ask him. She'd been too forward. They hardly knew each other. He had no obligation to her. No reason to come to St. Joseph on such short notice for a relative stranger.

No, not a stranger. They'd known each other. Perhaps it had only been a short time. And perhaps she was to blame for shortening it further because of her initial anger. But he'd stayed with her patiently, trying to help, until she let go of the anger and saw him for who he was. He hadn't left her. He'd waited.

She would wait, too. He could simply be late, she argued. He could have been delayed.

She brushed the hair back from her face and marched back to her one and only bag. There was a bench outside the stage office and she sat down, turning toward the open prairie west of the town. That was the way he'd come. If he came. The doubt still plagued her, and the worries crept back into her thoughts. Where would she go? She'd left Aunt Sarah and had no intention of going back, but without Buck, she'd have no one. She wasn't fit to work in the white world. She couldn't read or write well enough to be a teacher. Her skills weren't needed here. She could sew leather and sinew, tan hides, cook buffalo and cure meat. She could put together a tepee, build a travois. She could be a trapper's wife perhaps, but the thought of those smelly, hairy men disgusted her.

Dust billowed up in the distance and Jenny sat up straighter and held a hand over her eyes to shield the sunlight from her gaze. A horse and rider, coming fast. Her pulse sped with the horse as it approached. _Let it be him_, she prayed silently. She wasn't sure what she'd do if he did come for her. The Pony Express wouldn't outlast the telegraph. He would be lost in this world, too. But she wouldn't worry if she were with him. They'd find something. Even if they went to the mountains to become trappers themselves. Buck wasn't like the hairy men. He was kind and gentle, strong and honorable, handsome and clean. He was Indian.

As the rider came closer she noted the shape of his hat, the color of his clothing. It wasn't what she remembered, and the hurt returned. The rider slowed as he entered town and she knew for certain it was not him. He trotted the horse past her without even a glance.

"Is there something I can help you with, Miss?" a man's voice pulled her away from the rider. She turned and saw a paunchy man in a worn suit. He probably ran the stage here.

Jenny shook her head. She had no money left. This was it, and she didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to say. She had no where to go from this place, from this very bench.

The man looked up past her as a hand tapped her shoulder. Jenny started, wondering why she hadn't heard anyone approach her. She turned around and looked up, blocking the sun again, so she could see clearly.

He smiled at her and she knew him. He removed his hat, revealing a smooth head covered in a red bandana. Stuffing the hat under one arm, he moved his hands and she understood, the signs as familiar to her as the Lakota her mind still spoke. He was Buck's friend. Buck wanted to come, he told her, but he was held up. Ike had come in his place. He replaced his hat after tipping it to the stage manager and lifted her bag from the ground. Then he crooked an elbow and held it out to her.

Jenny felt the wind rustle the hem of her skirts and felt she could soar if he'd asked. She smiled back at him and took his arm. "Ike," she remembered.

He nodded and led her away towards the hotel. Tomorrow, he explained, she would leave for Rock Creek. He had a run to make so he couldn't go the whole way, but she wasn't to worry. She'd be in Rock Creek by Sunday afternoon.

He paid the clerk for a room and signed her name. He gave her some money for dinner and said he'd be back in the morning. "I can't take your money," she told him. But he shook his head and said it wasn't his. It was meant for her. "Won't you stay for supper?" she asked him, but he smiled and shook his head. He had things to do.

"Rest well," his hands told her. "It will be a long ride."

The hotel clerk cleared his throat to get her attention. He held out a key to her. "Number six, second floor on your left. Dinner's at seven sharp."

"Thank you," she said, taking the key. When she turned again, Ike was gone. She hadn't heard him step away.

* * *

As the light faded, the heat began to fade as well. Sweat soaked Buck's clothes, mixed with the blood, entered the cuts and stung his eyes. He couldn't close them. If he closed them, he would sleep, and if he slept, his body would fall. If his body fell. . . . He didn't want to think about that. It hurt enough as things were. He swayed on his knees no matter how hard he tried to stay still. The ropes bit into his wrist and arm. He couldn't feel his hands below the ropes. He vaguely wondered if he still had hands. Maybe the man had cut them off. He couldn't remember.

He was thirsty. His thirst had managed to gain his attention through all the pain. The sun had baked the tin shed until the air had become thick and heavy with the heat. His coat stifled him; his shirt choked him.

But now he could feel the breeze, just a wisp of it now and then, like cool water on his skin. But not in his mouth. He'd long lost his ability to speak or even to scream. Each breath brought new fire to his parched throat. He needed water.

Water was his only thought then, his obsession. It outweighed the pain, the discomfort, the heat. Water. He remembered the stream where this had started and he didn't think of the man, of his horse, of his own wounds. Only the water. The sweat still clung to him, teasing him with its wetness when he couldn't drink.

As the sky grew darker, the breezes blew stronger. His wet clothes chilled him and he began to shiver. He didn't notice. Night came, and he thought of another river, long ago, and a beautiful woman kneeling on the banks, her long blond hair brushing against the doeskin dress she wore. She held a feather in her hand.

* * *

Lou woke early, eager to get back to Rock Creek. The Kid would be returning the next day. She was enjoying the run, the speed and freedom, but she missed him dearly. And she missed Buck. She was excited for him, even though she knew he was a bit fearful of the whole situation. She probably would be, too, in his place, but she loved him as a brother and wanted him to find happiness and love like she had with the Kid. He deserved so much better than he usually got.

She brushed her horse down one more time and then saddled her. She heard the station master call "Rider comin'!" just as she finished checking the last buckle. She led the horse out into the yard and turned west to watch the rider come in. The horse pawed at the ground and lifted its head to sniff the wind. It seemed she was just as anxious as Lou.

"You be careful out there, son," the station master told her. "Keep yer head down and ride hard."

"Yes, sir," she told him. She could hear the pounding of the rider's horse as it bore down on her. She let her own horse go then, with just one foot in the stirrup. She used the horse's momentum to throw her up onto its back just as the other rider passed. She caught the mochilla and settled it beneath her. The other rider reigned in, but she gave her horse a soft kick. The dirt and grass beneath them became a blur as they raced away from the station.

Lou missed this. A woman couldn't ride like this with all those skirts on. The weight of all that material alone would slow the horse, she mused. Not that she hated the dresses. She remembered the first one she'd bought with her Pony Express pay. She'd felt like a princess wearing it after so many weeks in the course britches she wore. It had felt good to be a girl again, to have gentlemen tip their hats to her, to look at her reflection and see herself for a change. But now that she wore dresses all the time, she missed the pants. Now that she was always home, she missed the travel, no matter how tiring or dreary the long runs had been. Someday, she dreamed, women would be able to wear whichever they preferred and have exciting jobs and still be wives and mothers.

By late afternoon she was on the last leg of the run for the day, heading toward the next way station and another fresh horse the following morning. She wondered how Buck and Jenny were faring, there at the station all alone together.

* * *

Jenny carefully folded the blanket back over the bed, just as her aunt had taught her. She knew she didn't have to, but she was anxious and had nothing else to do. She'd finished getting ready a half an hour ago. She'd saved a bit of money from the night before to buy a simple breakfast which she'd eaten in her room. Then she'd packed up her bag and waited for Ike to come for her. And as she waited, she doubted again. Yes, Ike had come for her, sent by Buck. But still, it would be awkward. Maybe he'd only sent for her to help her, knowing she had nowhere else to go. He might not want her for himself. She was fluffing the pillow when the knock came at the door.

Jenny rushed over and opened the door. Ike grinned at her, greeting her with his hands. He looked past her to the bed and asked if she'd slept alright. She nodded and told him she was fine. His grin widened after a few moments and he motioned into the room.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, realized she'd been rude. She held out her arm to show him in. "I'm sorry. I'm just nervous, I guess." She rubbed her palms on her skirt.

Ike found her bag and started for the door again. "Have you eaten?" he asked with his free hand.

She nodded again, and held out the last bit of money she had left over.

He shook his head and closed her hand around the coins. He led the way into the hall, but Jenny found herself still standing in the doorway. She wanted to follow after him but her feet refused to move. It had all seemed so certain and easy when she'd left her aunt. But now that she was here, leaving for Rock Creek, she was struck by the uncertainty of it all. Ike turned to her and waited. And then she blurted out her fears. "He does want me to come, doesn't he?"

Ike set the bag down and faced her directly. His smile was soft and his hands danced in graceful movements. "More than he even knows."

* * *

The cold of the night had given way to warmth with the first sunlight of the morning, but the sun had kept climbing and the shed was once again heating up. And yet, Buck was still shivering. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he didn't even blink. He'd forgotten his thirst. No thought at all came to him, though he was awake. He still couldn't sleep, couldn't let his body relax. There was still the pain.

He had thought of Jenny during the night, and it was just another ache added to his wounds. He'd missed her. He hadn't been sure anymore what day it was but he knew he'd missed her in St. Joseph. She was gone now, gone to somewhere else. He would never know where. She would think he'd rejected her and move on to find her place in the world however she could. He might have loved her. She might have loved him. Now they'd never know.

But even Jenny was removed from him, leaving only the regret. His mind was a slave to his body now which only thought of pain and how to avoid it. Thus he stayed on his knees, occasionally shifting his weight to try and ease the muscles only to shift back to ease his injured knee. He lifted his head only to allow his breath to come a little easier within his chest. He remained careful not to move his arms or jar his shoulders. He only existed, beyond hope of any decrease in agony and only fearful of any increase in it. He sucked in another heavy breath and didn't even hear when the door screeched open.

* * *

TBC


	4. Chapter Four

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Four**

Jenny awoke with the dawn and found Ike awake and poking at the fire. She stood and stretched and wished she could rid herself of the confining layers of cloth she wore. A simple doeskin dress and moccasins were so much more sensible for traveling. She looked at her shoes with their many eyelets and laces. They scrunched her toes and made her arches and heels ache by the end of day. She decided moccasins would be a priority when she reached Rock Creek, as soon as she could get her hands on some deerskin or leather and some rawhide. She could bother with the beadwork later.

As they shared a simple breakfast of bacon and coffee, Ike told her about Rock Creek and some of the changes in the station since they had moved from Sweetwater. Lou was really Louise and she and the Kid were now married. Jimmy was interested in an abolitionist's widow. Cody had joined the Army as a scout. That upset her, even though Ike explained he'd joined up for the war, not for going against the Indians. She remembered, though, how Buck had told her he'd gone with the Army that day because he didn't want someone like Cody to do it.

But she kept those thoughts to herself for now. She wanted to look forward to seeing Buck again, not dread meeting his friends.

She mounted the horse behind him, and as the rode, she told him about life in the city. The better parts anyway, the foreign parts that were different from anything either of them had grown up with. She told about the tall buildings, the theatres, the telegraph. He seemed to sag a bit at the telegraph, but he kept his hands on the reins and didn't say anything.

Jenny enjoyed the ride. She was at home on these plains, on a horse with the sky above her and the grass below. The trees spoke to her of their freedom, and their fragrance lifted her spirit from the mire it had been in since her mother had died and she'd gone east.

The horse trotted easily, covering the miles at a quick but leisurely pace. Jenny--Eagle Feather--wished that she had the reins. Though she did not begrudge Ike his help or company, she wanted to share in the freedom around her. She wanted to race the wind.

But she did not ask it of Ike. The horse, carrying two, would tire too quickly. She could hold her feelings for another day and ask Buck if they could go for a ride later. The Kiowa were horsemen; he'd understand her desires.

* * *

Lou reigned in her horse and led it into the barn while Ben sped off into the east. She took her time rubbing him down. It was early still. Buck may have slept in. Lou wished she had. She was tired from the run, but it was a good tired. It was the tired left over from hard work, not the boredom she sometimes napped to in the afternoons at the house while the boys were finishing their chores.

She put fresh hay into the trough and closed the stall. She lifted the chain from her pocket until she felt the weight of the watch in her hand. She checked the time as she stepped out into the sunshine outside the barn. Nine thirty. The Kid wouldn't be back until that evening. She had plenty of time to get cleaned up. She couldn't help but smile as she reached the porch. Jenny might be sleeping in, too. She was anxious to meet her again and excited for Buck. She opened the door quietly and glanced around the front room. Nothing was out of place and nothing new was there. Maybe she didn't have much, Lou reasoned. Jenny had run away from her aunt. She probably hadn't packed more than a bag or two. Lou poked her head into the kitchen, but that, too, was empty and just as she left it. She crossed to the hearth and noted that there was no heat at all. Not even an ember from the night before.

She took the stairs quickly, not bothering to keep her steps quiet. A few minutes later, she stomped back down them. She'd checked every room, but there was no sign of Jenny. Buck was too much a gentleman to put her in the bunkhouse when the main house was available. Wasn't he? She stepped outside, and marched to the bunkhouse. She was about to knock when she remembered Ben. Ben had come from the bunkhouse. He would have said something if Buck had brought a girl home. And Ben couldn't cook and there had been no fire. With no one here, he'd probably taken his breakfast in town.

Lou threw open the bunkhouse door and scanned the room. Buck's bunk was made and his hat and coat were missing. He hadn't returned.

Lou stood in thought for a few minutes. Jenny hadn't arrived and Buck hadn't returned. Jenny would have reached St. Joe Friday afternoon. Buck would have arrived soon after. They could have left that day, camped for the night, and still made it back here the night before. Or they could have left in the morning, but then Buck risked arriving after Teaspoon, the Kid, and the others returned. No, something had happened.

Lou ran back to the house and scratched out a quick note telling the Kid or whoever found it where she'd gone. Then she made her way back to the barn. She was glad this was a Pony Express station. Everyone was out but there was still at least one fresh horse.

* * *

The man hadn't returned since before the cold and the dark of night. Now there was, once again, heat and dim light to mark another day, though Buck was oblivious as to how many it had been since . . . he couldn't even remember that. Sometimes his mind swam in dreams and memories even though his eyes remained open and his body tense. If his mind ever latched onto a thought for his present situation, it was only "Do not fall!" Everything else was lost in fog.

He did not remember where he was or why he hurt so much. His dreams, when they came to him, were of memories of his life, but always, there was a storm. Wind shook his brother's tepee, or thunder rattled the bunkhouse windows. Rain drenched him, soaking his clothes and chilling his skin.

He shivered in spite of the heat that made the air feel thick and heavy. His position only made it harder to pull breath into his lungs. His eyes were open but he had long since ceased to see clearly. He spoke, though he wasn't really aware that he was whispering. He prayed, asking the Great Spirit to free him from the pain.

But the Great Spirit, as He had so often in his life, had other plans. The pain stayed, and so did Buck, though by now he wished for death. For not the first time he considered that he was being punished for the deeds of his father. He was created through violence and pain, and so he was doomed to live in violence and pain.

Thunder rumbled in the distance of his mind and the winds swirled around him. He thought of Jenny and knew that he'd missed her. Even if he survived and went to St. Joseph it would be too late. She'd be gone; she probably already was gone. But he didn't expect to survive; not this time. Would she even know that he had tried? They might have found some happiness together, or at least a peace in this hard world. He hoped she still would. Little Bird had.

Rain poured from the sky, as he and the other hunters crested the hill. The village became visible below them, but the tepees were broken. The men urged their horses to a run and raced down the hill. Buck could smell the stench even through the storm. He called out for Little Bird even as he heard other voices over the howling wind as each of the hunters called out to their families.

With Little Bird, Buck had come to a new time in his life with the Kiowa. In accepting the little white girl, his people begun to see that there was some Kiowa in him. He was allowed to participate in games and contests. The elders included him when they taught the other children. And Little Bird herself had looked at him with kindness. She accepted him and never questioned his heritage. He had come to care greatly for her, and was happy when they were promised to each other, even though those who promised them did so for practical reasons: they were both white. Still, for the first time, Buck had started to feel like he belonged. When he was asked to join the hunt, he could not possibly refuse. Little Bird begged him not to go and now, he'd returned too late. She didn't answer his calls, but neither was she found among the dead in the days to come. The survivors told him that his kind--the whites--had taken her back with them. Little Bird was gone, and his people were, once again, reminded of the evil of "his" kind.

Little Bird had eventually found him again, to tell him of her upcoming marriage, and, while she did not blame him, she seemed happy with a man who detested the "heathen" ways of the Indians.

The rain turned to hail and he was forced inside. A bright fire warmed his brother's tipee and he moved to step close to it. But a hacking cough tried to draw his attention away. He knew who it was and he refused to look that way. She'd insisted on helping her sons with the horses, in spite of the weather and the cough she'd woken up with. Buck and Red Bear had caught on too late, after she had collapsed in the snow. This was his most painful memory, and his heart was crushed once again as he watched his mother die.

Lightning flashed and the roar of thunder became the sound of gunfire. Ike fell to the sidewalk, a dark red stain spreading across his white shirt. Too late, Buck reached him. Ike was already dying. Buck had tried to talk to him, to tell him what he meant to him. Ike had become his family, and had understood him in ways Red Bear never could. While Ike was alive, Buck was never alone, and a piece of his spirit had been ripped from him when Ike died.

Beyond his awareness, the door of the shed screeched open again and the storm reached out for him.

* * *

Lou was getting hungry but she didn't want to stop. Besides, she had left so quickly that she hadn't thought to pack any food. She had even forgotten to refill her canteen. She knew there was a stream up ahead though. She'd manage with just the water until she found Buck.

She saw the trees that marked the stream about a half hour later, just as the sun was reaching its peak in the sky. Her horse was thirsty, and apparently knew the area as well as she did. It sped up and she didn't try to rein it in. Just as they reached the trees though, her horse stopped and resisted her efforts to force it forward. She could not see what might be spooking the horse but she could smell it. Something had died there.

She dismounted and tied the horse to one of the trees then pulled her gun from its holster. She cautiously stepped past the trees to the stream, and, looking left, she could see the source of the stench. A horse, eviscerated and half eaten by wolves or other scavengers. But she recognized it anyway.

She moved closer, covering her mouth and nose with one hand. It still had its tack: saddle and bridle, but no reins. She knew the saddle like she knew the horse, and she knew now her worry was well-founded. This was Buck's horse. She backed away, searching the area for some clue. She found his knife and hat not far from the horse and picked them up. There was blood in the rocks by the hat. Too far from the horse to be the horse's, she hoped it was too little to be a sign of Buck's death. He was wounded. She could accept that. She would find him and the doctor back in Rock Creek could tend his wound. She wished Kid was there. He'd been learning from Buck how to track, and right now she needed to track. She thought there might be a set of footprints in the rocks and decided to follow those.

Remembering her need for water, she returned to her horse to get her canteen. She put the knife in a saddle bag and tied Buck's hat to the saddle. He'd want them back when she found him. She untied her horse, intending to lead it upstream of the dead one for a drink before she set again to finding where Buck had gone.

The horse didn't fight her too much, as she'd skirted widely around the carcass. She filled her canteen and watched the horse drink for a bit. She thought again about the tracks she'd seen. They were near the horse and the blood stain that was by Buck's hat. Could it have been Buck? She tried to paint a picture in her head of what might have happened. Buck, even wounded, would have tried to see to his dying horse, but why would he have wandered about the area so much? If the blood was from a leg wound, why had his hat fallen so close? If from an arm or shoulder, why were the footprints near where his head would have been? Why had his horse died at all? Then there was the knife. She could not shake the feeling that maybe those were not Buck's prints, but someone else's. And that someone else had killed the horse.

* * *

Teaspoon was glad to see the station up ahead. It was good to see Rock Creek and his office again, but the station's bunkhouse was home to him more than the town. His family was at the station. Or rather, what was left of it was. Noah and Ike were gone now, Cody had joined the army, and Jimmy was hardly to be seen these days. Kid and Lou were married and would soon need a place of their own. Rachel and Buck were still there, though Rachel had enough prospects ahead of her that she too might leave once the Express finally closed down. Buck, though. . . . Teaspoon did not know what would become of Buck, and that worried him.

He passed the barn just as the Kid came out leading Katy. Teaspoon remembered that Kid had been out on an unusually long run. He wasn't even due back at the station for another hour or two. Why was he leading his horse out of the barn instead of in? "Where you off to?" he asked when Kid looked up.

"I'm going after Lou," he answered and then handed Teaspoon a folded bit of paper. "She's gone after Buck."

Teaspoon read the note then folded it again. "What was he doin' goin' to St. Joe? He had a run in the other direction."

"I don't know," Kid said, clearly aggravated. "She left that part out."

Teaspoon sighed. "Well, whatever the reason, she thinks he's in trouble. He should have been back by now."

The Kid nodded. "And if he is in trouble, she might need help gettin' him out of it."

"I reckon so," Teaspoon agreed. "Maybe even more than just you. Hold off a bit Kid. Let's get word to Rachel and then we'll both set out. Run down and give this note to Barnett to take to her. I'll gather some supplies." He handed the paper back to Kid. The younger man nodded and then mounted his horse. Teaspoon went into the house. They were both ready to depart five minutes later.

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter Five

**Star Trek: Enterprise**

**Alien Us**

By Philippe de la Matraque

**Chapter Five**

Author's note: Due to painful hands, I've had to speech-type this chapter. I read each scene over again as I did so, to catch as many typos (speak-os) as I could find. So if you happen to find any more, please contact me personally by e-mail (not on the review page). Speakos are harder to find as none of the words are misspelled exactly. They just might be the wrong word. I now return you to Chapter Five.

* * *

Something had changed. Malcolm wasn't sure what it was, but something was definitely about to happen. For one thing, there were no visits from Saruman and his protg. But more ominous than that was that there was no food. Only water. Hoshi had confirmed that they hadn't fed her either. Malcolm hadn't replied after that. He didn't want to scare her.

He had several ideas on why the natives would stop feeding them. None of them were good. They might be trying to see how long their captives could live without food. They might be getting ready to kill and dissect them. They might be preparing to transport them somewhere else. Which on the surface didn't sound as bad as the other two. But what was unknown could be more dangerous than what was known. And then, there was surgery. Except in emergencies, doctors always ordered a fast before surgery.

He was wary then when the door opened the next morning. Saruman and a smaller one entered and checked him over no differently than before. Until Saruman grabbed both of his arms in his large, three-fingered hands. The smaller one quickly stuck a needle into his shoulder and emptied a syringe of something into it.

Instantly, he started to feel heavier. He tried to get out of Saruman's grip. He even tried to kick him, but the smaller one--Grima, his sluggish mind provided--clamped his fingers around both his legs and held them firm. _Please_, he thought, _whatever happens, leave Hoshi out of it._ Within seconds, there was no longer any fight in him. He couldn't even hold his head up. He tried to keep his eyes open though and saw the door opened again to allow a table of some sort in. Saruman and Grima lifted him easily onto it and laid him down onto its cold metal surface. Everything went dark at that point.

* * *

It had gone easier than Baezhu thought it would. They had both seemed trusting, to a point. The male certainly had seemed more alert when they had entered. And he had tried, weakly, to fight when Dr. Bishtae grabbed him. But really, Baezhu had had worse experience with _daka_, non-sentient mammals half this size. The female was a little more difficult, as they didn't want to reinjure her ribs, which might still be weakened from her injuries. But in both cases, they were now lying quietly asleep on their respective surgical gurneys.

The large surgical room had been chosen and prepped the day before. Both gurneys were rolled in and set securely in place next to the two large machines, a respirator and a coronary replacement.

Hinath was assigned to Dr. Burha who led the team who would examine the female. Baezhu was assigned to Dr. Bishtae and the team examining the male. As Lesser Wingeds they were to provide support and minor assistance. Baezhu wasted no time, taking the male's pulse and blood pressure readings as a baseline for the coronary replacement. He took several readings, realizing that it was the most important aspect of life support.

That done, Dr. Enesh began to set up both machines while Dr. Bishtae inserted the tube which would allow the respirator to breathe for the subject. Dr. Kinah began the anesthetic IV drips which would keep both subjects unconscious for the duration.

* * *

Hoshi woke up to a sharp pain in her chest. She screamed but heard nothing but alien voices. She couldn't even draw in a breath to scream. In spite of the searing pain running down the length of her sternum, her breaths came in even, almost mechanical regularity. She couldn't change it even to gasp, though the pain was enough to take her breath away. She would have disobeyed Reed's order for silence if she could only move her mouth. She could feel something hard on her tongue.

She tried to move her hands, her feet, anything, but nothing even twitched. She couldn't even open her eyes. It was like she was locked inside a body that wouldn't obey her. Like it was someone else's body. Only she felt and heard everything. She became aware of a loud buzzing sound moving toward her and then pressure in her chest. She had never felt so much pain before. Surely it was enough to kill her, to cause her heart to stop, or to send her into shock.

The buzzing stopped and she felt something reach inside of her. _Stop!_ she sobbed--in her mind. She couldn't make anything else work. Suddenly, it was all worse. The pressure in her chest went the other way, pulling out on her ribs. She heard them crack. She felt a draft underneath her agony and realized they had opened her chest.

_God_, she prayed, not caring about whether or not there was one to pray to, _please let me die._

* * *

_Don't they even know?_ Malcolm wondered for the thousandth time in what seemed an eternity. _I'm awake!_ But he could do nothing to make them aware. He couldn't move the slightest voluntary muscle and all the involuntary ones just kept humming along as if his body wasn't a bottomless pit of pain. His chest hurt unimaginably, but his right hand felt as if it had been put through a meat shredder. His whole arm had been sliced up, as had one of his legs. What they did to the rest of him--what he imagined because he could only hear and feel--was enough to make him wretch, but he couldn't even do that. _My God_, he realized, _they're dissecting me but they won't let me die first._

Won't let him die. He would have given up that ghost a million times over by now, if they had given him the opportunity. He was cold. He was burning everywhere they touched, and he was sure he should have bled to death by now. But, of course, they had collected his blood.

Suddenly, his right eye opened and the nightmarish ordeal sank to an even deeper level. He couldn't move his eye to turn it or to let them know he was awake. He couldn't even see clearly. The light above them was so bright it hurt. But he saw a three-fingered hand reaching for him, coming closer and closer. Something cold pushed into his eye socket just above his lower eyelid. If he could have screamed, he would have. The pressure built up so that he couldn't see past the pain anyway until suddenly the pressure was gone. The pain was not.

_Just kill me!_ he screamed to them silently, and he begged for at least the dark peace of unconsciousness. But that was long in coming. He felt them replace his eye, though now he could barely see anything. They closed it for him and he wished they'd close down everything. His heart, his lungs, or whatever machines were keeping him alive.

Finally, the pain ebbed away on a wave of heavy darkness and he hoped it meant he was dead.

* * *

By the time Doctors Bishtae and Burha had finished, there was only an hour remaining to Baezhu's shift. Both aliens were now sleeping in a special room set up with life-support and anesthesia not too different from the surgical room. Yet it was meant to be more comfortable for them. Instead of hard tables, they rested on pressure foam mattresses and pillows for their heads and knees. Of course, both were so drugged with pain killers now that they wouldn't even feel the mattresses. Even then, knowing so little about their capacity for narcotics required round-the-clock observation.

Either one might be dead before tomorrow's shift, he realized. But if even one survived, today's examination had given them--and would continue to do so--so much more information on their physiology that Bishtae was confident they could keep the aliens viable through further examinations and experiments. Already, they had learned enough to make anatomical drawings. There were, of course, deeper studies needed to accurately depict the heart and brain, for example. But to continue on immediately would stretch their chances of viability too thin. As it was, there were many variables that would have to be monitored carefully, like infection, clotting, hemorrhaging, or simply shock.

To control the first, the room was kept as near to sterile as they could possibly manage, and antibiotics were administered intravenously. Only foods known to cause no allergic reactions in the male would be used in the feeding tubes to guard that variable as well. For clotting and hemorrhaging, blood pressure was monitored constantly. Any abnormal rise or drop would signal a problem, but also ultrasound technology was used to visually check veins and arteries to ensure blood flowed properly.

Shock was the harder variable to control. It really varied so widely between individuals. Thus the doctors had all agreed that induced comas were the best option at this point.

Kahrae caught him at breakfast the next morning. "They survivied the night?"

"Yes and it's good," Baezhu replied. "Every day we keep them alive teaches us something. Even if they are comatose."

"What did you do in the big exam?" Kahrae asked. "You opened them up, right?"

"Top to bottom," Baezhu concurred. "Of course we still have to analyze it all, but it was amazing! They're so different in some ways, and so alike in others. I mean, their hearts for example. They're smaller than ours but appear to have four chambers just like ours do."

"Maybe they're more like me," Kahrae said, surprising Baezhu.

"What do you mean?"

"The desert," Kahrae replied as he pushed back his now clean plate. "I've been thinking about it. They crashed one day and were found the next. In the desert. You couldn't survive a night out there."

Baezhu's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't even thought of that before. "But you can. They're warm-blooded."

"Or at least warmer-blooded," Kahrae corrected. "Don't want to jump to any assumptions, do we?"

Baezhu smiled. "Are you sure you're not growing wings back there?" He made a point of trying to see behind Kahrae's back. "You know we still don't know the long-term effects of genetically engineering a new species of Raptor."

"Very funny. My father did warn me about spending too much time with Wingeds and Monitors. Said they'd rub off on me."

* * *

"I was wondering when you'd notice," Bishtae said when Baezhu told him about his friend's hypothesis.

"I did notice their core temperatures were generally stable," Baezhu admitted. "But then, we keep the environment stable. My temperature is stable and I'm cold-blooded."

"A good point," Bishtae agreed. "And one that we can test once they are get more stable. The male's blood has always tended to be somewhat warmer than the room temperature however, so I think our suspicions will win out."

"Would that be how they survive the cold of space?" Baezhu pondered.

"Perhaps a leap too far, my boy." Bishtae began to step into his clean suit. "We don't have any idea of their technology. Their skin, however, seems hardly thick enough to stand the vacuum. So I guess they had some environmental control of their ship. It could shield them from cold and retain a certain level of pressure, for example."

"But without a ship to study,..." Baezhu began.

"Or their voices to tell us,..." Bishtae added.

"We'll never know for sure."

Bishtae nodded and slipped his helmet on. He waited until Baezhu was sealed as well and stepped into the first airlock. "Well, I know they won't be talking today," he said. He had to speak up to be heard over the cleanser beam.

Baezhu closed his eyes against the brightness and felt the intense heat as the cleanser beam neutralized any microbes he might be carrying on the outside of his suit. The outer edges of his skin tingled and just began to register pain when the beam stopped and the second door opened, allowing the cooler air of the post-surgery room to waft in.

The routine stayed very much the same for a week. He and Dr. Bishtae would check on the subjects' conditions first thing in the morning and midway through the day. Dr. Burha would then do the same in the afternoon and evening, while Dr. Enesh had agreed to stay overnight in order to monitor them until Bishtae returned. Between checks, the doctors pored over notes, photographs, and tissue samples, trying to piece together the puzzle of these two creatures' lives.

Dr. Enesh believed they could see in three dimensions and in color, based on the composition of the eye, the number of rods, and the placement of the cornea. They probably also had a wide visual horizontal field, seeing as they have no biological impediments except to the rear. The vertical field was slightly more limited by the placement of the eyes on the skull. In addition, they had no second skin to protect the eye, leaving them vulnerable to dust, sand, or other intrusions.

Other studies confirmed what was already known, putting reasons to already witnessed attributes. The aliens walked upright. Their spines curved only slightly from neck to coccyx. The legs were longer than the arms, and the neck muscles were placed such that they were strongest when the head was held above the body. Likewise, the musculature of the legs and the structures of the foot showed balance would be carried straight up. They were built to walk upright.

Which left their arms and hands free for other things. Their arms were stronger than Raptor arms, comparatively, but not as strong as Winged arms. A Raptor's strength was mainly in his legs and jaws. They were built for running and killing with their teeth. A Winged's strength was in its arms, where the vestiges of flight remained. Unencumbered, Baezhu's people could still fly very short distances, though in the ancient past they had crossed the planet from continent to continent via the skies. Thus they were the most homogenous sentients in the world.

The aliens had neither the arms for flight nor the claws and teeth of a pure predator. Their five fingers on each hand--and opposable thumbs and large brains--meant that they had a level of dexterity beyond any known species. These were a people that could reach technological heights as yet closed to the Wingeds.

"Dr. Bishtae said that's why we haven't yet put a man on the moon," Baezhu told his friend. "It's not for lack of knowledge. We can dream it. We just can't make it light enough. To be light, the components have to be small. We have to build machines to make things on so small a scale."

Kahrae nodded, clearly thinking it through. "Like computers. The chips and boards get smaller and smaller."

"Yes," Baezhu agreed, "but they're still too big and heavy to get much more than a small satellite up there."

* * *

A brightness melted back into the blackness that had surrounded and comforted him. Sounds followed. Beeps and whirrs in an otherwise sea of quiet. Awareness peeled back the layers of sleep and Malcolm Reed woke up.

He blinked in the bright light and absently began to wonder where he was. The ceiling was high and white, and it was all he could see. He tried to lift his head but found he was too weak to do so. And then he realized his sight was funny. Something was missing. And then the memories slammed into him, and the beeping closest to him increased its rhythm.

His eye. They had removed his eye. Instinctively, he reached up to touch it but his arm wouldn't move. The beeping sped up again, but slowed somewhat when he realized he could blink. It wasn't like before. He lifted his left arm and found it obeyed, if awkwardly. He ended up slapping himself in the face, but he accomplished what he had intended. He felt the bandage covering his right eye. It was there. He could feel the pressure of his fingers. He let out a sigh. They had put it back. It was no guarantee that he would ever see out of it again, but it was better than having it ripped from his head. That thought spurred the memory again and increased the beeping, and he knew it for his pulse. He could feel it pounding in his chest.

But he didn't feel pain. _Now they give me painkillers,_ he thought. _Bastards._ He felt ill and still couldn't bring himself to even be happy to be alive. He didn't want to live with the memory of the agony and the imaginary images of what he hadn't seen. He was helpless still under their control. What was there to feed a desire to survive? He was caught in a never-ending nightmare.

The machine beside him was in a frenzy as the tremors began to shake him. And then it clacked, his heart stopped pounding, and a warm liquid entered the side of his neck. The machine commenced again the same rhythm he had woken up to and his thoughts grew fuzzy.

Life-support. They were keeping him alive. The machine, he realized, had taken over for his racing heart. He let his left hand, still touching the bandages on his eye, slide down to the right side of his neck, and he felt a plastic tube there. It pulsated with each beep of the machine.

The idea hit him and he wasted no time contemplating it. He would not have to lie helpless while they cut him open again. He wasn't paralyzed this time. His fingertips pulled on the tuber but slipped off, so he turned his head to offer a better grip.

He froze. There was another bed a little more than a yard away. And Hoshi lay sleeping on it. A steady beat emanated from her own machine and he knew that they had done the same to her. He let his hand fall.

* * *

Hoshi had tried telling herself that she was dreaming for hours. She was used to having some cognitive powers over her dreams. Lucid dreaming. She even tried telling her captors that, the bird-like creatures stabbing and slicing her. But she hadn't been able to make them go away or change herself to a different place. Or even to wake up.

Maybe that was because she really didn't want to wake up. The cognitive part of her mind was conflicted. It knew the nightmare for what it was, but it also remembered when it had been real and was disappointed that it could remember anything.

Eventually, in spite of her semiconscious struggle, her senses became aware that her body wasn't feeling what she was experiencing. The sounds of her dreams slipped away to quiet with gentle patterns of beeps and whirrs. The knives wielded by her tormentors ceased to cut or cause pain. She felt nothing except a dull ache over most of her body. The creatures themselves finally faded away and, out of curiosity, she opened her eyes.

And promptly shut them again against the bright light hanging overhead. Then it hit her. She had survived. Her eyes began to water. She hadn't wanted that. Why should she want life when it only set her up for more agony? It wasn't worth what they had done to her. The images of her nightmare returned in vivid clarity to punctuate that point.

She heard more than felt herself let out a choked sob. She tried to lift her hands to wipe the tears from her eyes but only one would move. It was weak and heavy so she turned her head to meet it. And when she opened her eyes again, the nightmare faded. Someone was looking back at her.

Malcolm. His hair was long and he had a scruffy beard, but she still recognized him instantly. One of his eyes was covered by a white, gauzy patch, and the one remaining kept rolling up under his eyelid. But she could tell he was forcing it to stay open. He had tubes in the side of his neck, two of which were dark. They connected to a machine behind his head that was beeping regularly. Then she realized another was beeping a little faster above her head, and she let her fingers brushed the left side of her own neck. The tears came again when she found the tubes protruding there.

Malcolm moved, drawing her attention back to him. His left arm, bare and untouched, reached out to her across the space between their beds. She swung her own arm out and met his fingers with her own. He squeezed her hand gently and then closed his eye again.

Hoshi wanted to say something, but it wasn't so much his order that kept her from it. Her mouth was too dry and her throat too constricted as she began to cry in earnest. She found she was glad he was there but felt guilty for it, knowing that he was put through this same hell. She knew now that there was no hope. She thought before that the natives were nice enough, even though they kept her and Malcolm locked up. She was wrong. And she had wondered why Captain Archer hadn't come yet. She knew now he wouldn't be coming. Malcolm wouldn't find some ingenious way to break them free, and they had nowhere to go if he could. This was it. Hell. And the only good she could come up with was tainted with guilt. Malcolm was in hell, too, and she wasn't alone.

* * *

Baezhu anxiously followed Dr. Bishtae into the post-surgical room. They were awake. He was glad. While they had gained a lot of data that still needed analysis, it had grown rather dull watching the aliens sleep. Even better than their consciousness, however, was the evidence of interaction between the two. They might just get lucky enough to learn something of the creatures' culture.

"I'm concerned about the secretions from the female's eyes," Dr. Bishtae said. "Did Dr. Enesh mention anything in his ocular analysis?"

The male was sleeping soundly again to Baezhu's chagrin. The female, however, watched them with wide eyes oozing a clear liquid onto her cheeks. Her coronary replacement device clicked on and calmed her pulse which had begun to race. "He did see ducts near the eye which he presumed kept the surface of the eye moist. He noted it dried outside the ocular pit."

Dr. Bishtae reached toward the female's face with a swab to take a sample. "I wonder, then, why she is overproducing it." The female released the male's hand to try and swipe Dr. Bishtae away, but the doctor merely held her arm back as he took the sample. When he released her, she hastily wiped at her eyes with her fingers. Her hand was shaking.

"She seemed frightened," Baezhu suggested. "I know that may be reading my culture into her expressions, but it also seems appropriate to the situation. She probably doesn't understand what's going on."

"True enough," Dr. Bishtae agreed. "The hand-holding could be a source of comfort. Perhaps we should move their beds a bit closer. As they heal they may interact more. They might even communicate with each other."

That decided, the beds were moved until there was barely a foot and a half between them. Dr. Bishtae had reasoned that the affected limbs were on the outside, so it didn't really matter if he or Baezhu could fit between the beds anymore. "Let's get them rolled over, Baezhu," he said finally, satisfied with the aliens' conditions. "We don't want them getting pressure sores."

The female was sedated again by the time Baezhu turned her onto her right side, bending her right leg slightly and placing a pillow between her knees. He stepped back to check the alignment of her spine and then adjusted the board her left arm was strapped to so that it rested in front of her on her knee. Dr. Bishtae had turned the male as well, so when they awoke they would see each other easily.

Dr. Burha would be by later to change their bandages, so Dr. Bishtae signed off on their charts and collected his sample. Baezhu followed him out gladly. It was late and he hated the suits they had to wear. Still, he was happy overall. A new stage had dawned, and they were finally getting some answers.

* * *

Kahrae watched the stars as he watched the front gate with Nishet. "You think there'll be another one?" Nishet suddenly asked, kicking at the sand at his feet.

"Another what?" Kahrae asked, though he thought he knew the answer. He just wasn't sure how much Nishet knew.

"Meteorite," Nishet replied. "I hear it's got the Wingeds all in an uproar. What'd they do, find some new kind of metal?"

"Not sure," Kahrae lied. "I haven't been watching the news much lately."

Nishet gave him a knowing look. "Too busy thinking about breeding season?"

Kahrae chuckled. He'd be lying again to say he never gave that any thought. "Any rumors on the quotas this Turn?"

"Nothing definite," Nishet replied, still keeping his eyes on the horizon. "But with our problems with Buftanis, I wouldn't be surprised if they wanted more Raptors."

"Ah, but what about _Cold_ Raptors?"

Nishet smiled and looked over at him. "We, my friend, are a revolution, a step forward in evolution. There has been an increase every breeding season for the last six Turns. We can no longer expect our world to turn only in the daylight. Heck, I think they might start making Cold Wingeds next."

"We've got a shot then," Kahrae concluded. "I had no marks this Turn. I don't want to miss out again."

"I've been written up twice, but I still think I've got a chance," Nishet admitted. "They need more Cold Raptor DNA in the pool so they won't have to keep tinkering with the eggs."

"My friend, Baezhu, thinks Colds could be birthed naturally within four Turns."

"That's right," Nishet said. "You've got a Winged friend. I hear Dr. Bishtae is really taking him under. And with the doctor's prestige going up since that meteorite, your friend's almost guaranteed a spot. Hey, maybe he can find out the quotas."

Kahrae started to say that he'd ask when something caught his eye. "What's that?" he asked, inclining his nose toward the light moving across the stars in the west.

"I don't know," Nishet replied, looking himself, "but it's no meteorite."

"Yeah," Kahrae agreed, "it just sped up. I'm calling it in." He activated his radio. "Called Command, this is Kennisatae Research Silo. Unidentified flying object crossing from west to east toward meteorite crash site."

The reply came back quickly. "Confirmed, Kennisatae. We have identified it. Buftanisian spy probe. We'll take care of it. Out."

"What do they care about a meteorite?" Nishet asked at the other side of the gate. "Do they have to have every little thing we do?"

Kahrae snapped his head around. "You think they want to spy on the meteorite?"

"Sure," Nishet said. "We are at the edge of the most barren desert on the planet. What else could Buftanis possibly be interested in out here? They probably picked up the seismic hit, too."

Several white tracer bolts lit up from the desert ground defenses. They were anticipating the object, passing just in front of it until finally it ran into the third bolt and blinked out of existence in a brilliant flash.

"Sometimes I wish we'd just get it over with," Nishet said, after it was gone.

"What?" Kahrae asked, though he was only half listening. He was instead thinking about Buftanis and what they knew about the aliens and their crashed ship.

"War."

* * *

Colonel Gaezhur woke up to the sound of his radio buzzing. The heat lamp above him glowed warmly but he still felt slightly chilled. His kind were not supposed to be awake at night. That's why the Council had decreed the Cold Raptor experiment six Turns ago. It had gotten off to a rocky start, but the last three generations had proven solid and stable warm-blooded Raptors. Gaezhur picked up his radio, knowing that he wouldn't be called for just anything.

"Colonel," Major Zhenah's voice replied to his acknowledgment. "Sorry to wake you, sir, but you did say to notify you. Sir, we've just shot down an unmanned Buftanisian spy craft near Kennisatae Research Silo."

"How close to the crash site?" Gaezhur asked, instantly alert. He had left standing orders to notify him of any Buftanisian action in his territory of command.

"Thirty kilometers," Zhenah replied. "We should assume they got a glimpse."

Gaezhur nodded, knowing the major couldn't actually see him. "Agreed. While it doesn't reveal much even to us--and we've been over every inch of it--it will likely make them far more curious. I'll inform the Council in the morning."

* * *

One word reached him through the nightmarish sounds and sensations that had brought him out of the black silence of unconsciousness. One thought. One name.

_Hoshi._

Hoshi, over and over, until it drowned out the other sounds, sounds of cutting and of alien speech. He hung on to the name, letting it pulleded him from the pain of instruments and three-fingered hands moving inside him. Sight returned to him and he saw Saruman and Grima cutting Hoshi again as she lay still, yet breathing, on an operating table. He wanted to scream at them to stop but his mouth wouldn't open. He wanted to jump up and fight them off but he couldn't move. He couldn't even blink.

He could only watch, helpless, as they peeled back the skin on her face, revealing a bloody mass of crisscrossing muscle and one large, round, brown eye.

_Hoshi._

And then it was gone. The sounds, the pain, the vision of a grossly disfigured Hoshi. In their place were the soft beeps and whirrs of the machines and a white lump before his good eye. There was something beyond that white lump--a pillow, he realized--just past his unbandaged hand that lay dangling into the open space at the side of his bed.

_Hoshi._

He had to push down the pillow to see her, but he could then see her face, whole and uncut, beautiful still in seeming peaceful rest with her hair down around her shoulder and spilling over her neck.

But there were red lines on her cheek. She been crying. He hoped it was for what they had done to him--that they hadn't done the same to her. But he could see the bandages on her immobilized left arm which rested on her knee, just as his right arm did. Now he could see the tubes as they pushed up past her brown hair. Then he hoped her tears had been for the realization of what had been done to them both, that she had been spared the full horror of consciously experiencing it. He was at least a little relieved to see no patch on either of her eyes.

_Selfish_, he chided. He'd been selfish, wishing for death when Hoshi trusted him. A superior officer does not abandon his crew. Not a good one. And he always strove to be a good one.

He'd have to be strong now, for Hoshi. They could hang on until Captain Archer and _Enterprise_ came for them. He didn't want to think what else Saruman might do before that time. He just couldn't go down that road and stay strong. It was obvious the natives wanted them alive, so they'd have to back off now, for at least long enough for them to heal physically as they must have done for the time after the crash.

It was forty days from the crash before they had come to take him for.... Forty days. Maybe they'd give them that long again. Or longer, since the wounds they'd inflicted were far more severe than what the shuttle had dished out. To them, anyway. Surely _Enterprise_ could find them in eighty days.

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter Six

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Six**

Jenny laughed. She could just see Cody dripping with fat, covered with sand, praying that the spirits would forgive him. Still, she thought he got off lucky. Buck was more forgiving than some might have been in his place. A medicine bag was a serious thing. Ike finished the story and laid his hands in his lap. He was smiling, too, but there was something in his eyes that she could not quite decipher.

They had stopped for lunch and to give the horse a rest. Ike, sensing her anxiousness, had started telling her stories of Buck to take her mind off the wait. And it had worked. Now, it seemed he was waiting for her to tell a story. She did not want to change the mood, so she did not tell how she was taken to be with the Sioux or taken back by the army. And she certainly did not want to tell about the day her mother had died, though it was the day she had first felt something beyond friendship for Buck. He had risked his life to win her, but instead had given her her freedom.

Instead she told about her brother, Two Ponies, and the time he had wanted to help her braid her hair. He was much too adorable to deny, so she had let him. And later she and her mother had spent the greater part of an hour working out all the tangles and knots.

Ike smiled, laughing silently. He told her how he used to pull his sister's braids when he was little.

"Where is she now?" Jenny asked.

Ike's hands made a sign that changed the mood in an instant. Dead. "My whole family was killed."

Jenny hoped it wasn't by Indians. No. No, they wouldn't have killed a little girl. Not the Sioux anyway. Still, she found herself asking. "Was it--"

"Indians?" he signed. "No. Bad men. Murderers. It was a long time ago."

For Jenny, it wasn't so long. She missed her mother's smile, her voice. "Do you miss them?"

Ike nodded. But then he stood up and brushed off his pants. "We should go."

* * *

The stench was awful. The horse's carcass had been ripped open by scavengers, but the horse's tack was still there. Teaspoon recognized the saddle easily. Buck. Lou apparently had reason to worry.

Evening was coming, slowly dimming the sky beyond the trees. Paw prints obscured the area around the horse, but Teaspoon could still make out a few details. Buck had stopped, probably to water the horse. But someone had jumped him then, pushing him down into the pebbles. There was blood there, especially on the shallower side of the indentation in the riverbank.

Teaspoon crouched down and studied the scene for a moment, trying to see with his mind what his eyes were too late for. There were four hoof prints perpendicular to the stream: a horse stopping to drink. Beside that, two shallower, but longer, impressions: a rider, dismounted. The blood was farther over, shoulder-high to that rider if he were lying down. And he had been. The large impression in the pebbles at the riverbank: a rider fallen. Hoof prints around the deeper side of the impression and blood spattered about: the horse, shot but only wounded, and falling on the rider. Footprints on the far side of the rider's impression, and nearer the horse's carcass: the assailant.

Deeper indentations still ran away from the prone rider. Two parallel lines: drag marks. Buck had been shot, along with his horse, which had fallen on him prior to dying. And then the shooter had dragged Buck away.

Teaspoon stood, intending to tell Kid what he surmised, but Kid was already following the drag marks back to the tree line.

"Here," Kid said as Teaspoon came up beside him. The rocks had given way to dirt and grass. The prints here were more distinct. two pairs, one softer and smaller than the other. Hoof prints followed beside the smaller pair. Lou had come this way. It was the horse's tracks they followed as the grass thickened, and the horse led them to two thin lines in the grass set wider apart than Buck's legs when he was dragged. Deeper, too. A wagon.

"She done good," Teaspoon said. "She tracked him, and helped us do it."

"Maybe it was an accident," Kid said. His voice was hopeful, but quiet, like he wasn't convinced himself. "Maybe whoever took him, took him to get him some help."

Teaspoon shook his head, remembering something else he'd seen. There was a bridle on the horse still, but no reins strung out beside it. "Then why'd he take the reins?" he asked softly. "We need to find him, Kid. I hope to heaven Lou already has. And I hope she's safe, too."

Kid didn't comment, though Teaspoon knew he was upset that she'd come alone. He ducked his head and kicked once at the ground. "I'll get the horses."

* * *

At first, Lou was glad when the heat began to lessen, but now Buck was shivering. His teeth chattered, causing his breath to come even more irregularly. He convulsed from the pain, but the only sound he made with his voice was when she'd finally cut the rein from his broken arm after his fingers had started to turn blue. He had yet to close his eyes, and his lips moved in silent speech.

Lou didn't know what to do. She'd left him once, to get her canteen and Buck's knife. She'd poured water onto a bandana and tried to cool him down. She tried to help him drink, but he only choked and turned his head away. She tried moving him, but he was heavy and hurt in every place she needed to grab him. She knew he was dying, that the shed was killing him, but she couldn't bear causing him more pain now.

So she held him. She placed his head in her lap and touched his face, gently rubbing his brow. And she prayed. She prayed that Kid had found her note, that he'd come after her, and that somehow, together, they could save their friend. She prayed for God to give Buck the strength to hold out until help came and to ease his pain while they waited.

He thrashed again and clenched the fingers of his right hand on her sleeve. "Shh," she whispered, leaning over his face in the hope that he would see her. "They'll come. Kid will come. He'll bring Teaspoon. You'll be fine. It's over with now."

But he didn't lay still. The pain never left his eyes. The tension didn't leave his face. Not once in the hours that had passed since she'd found him. Lou wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, then kissed his forehead softy. She began to hum softly a tune she'd heard Rachel sing while hanging clothes last week. She was pretty sure he couldn't hear her any more than he could see her, but it was all she knew to do now.

* * *

The light was nearly gone from the sky, and Kid was beginning to despair of finding Lou--and Buck--that night at all. They were losing the tracks in the darkness and would have to make camp. He strained his eyes to see the trail. He didn't think he could sleep at all and he was afraid of what they'd find in the morning. No, he wanted Lou with him tonight, and he was determined to crawl on his hands and knees, feeling for the broken grass, if that's what it took.

"There," Teaspoon called.

Kid looked up to see him pointing toward a small hill. He could just make out the silhouette of a house there.

"Doesn't look like anyone's home," Kid replied. There were no lights, even though it was still fairly early. And the chill autumn breeze would have warranted a fire, but Kid could not make out any smoke.

"That's where the tracks lead," Teaspoon said. "That's where we're going."

Kid didn't argue. He'd be satisfied as long as they kept moving. As they got closer, he could make out a barn and some trees. Another small building stood apart from the house, bigger than an outhouse, but much smaller than the barn.

The tracks led to the barn, but as they approached he heard a pony nicker. Teaspoon put his finger to his lips and motioned for Kid to stay put. Kid stopped Katy and Teaspoon dismounted. He pulled his gun from its holster and disappeared into the trees. Kid stared at the farmstead while he waited, looking for any sign that someone was there. Teaspoon returned quickly though and he brought something with him.

"Lou's horse," he whispered and he passed his find up to Kid: Buck's hat.

* * *

Teaspoon knew that Buck had been shot. He knew his horse had likely trampled him before she died. He knew that whoever shot him had tied him and taken him captive. And he knew that Lou had found the horse and followed the trail. And still it had jolted him to find Buck's hat tied to her saddle. In his heart, he had still hoped to find Buck safe in spite of all the evidence.

He and Kid tied their horses next to Lou's and crept quietly toward the barn. They could hear restless movement inside. Teaspoon motioned Kid to check it while he went to the house.

Unlike the barn, the house was completely silent. Not a single light showed through the windows. The creek of the wooden stairs sounded deafeningly loud in the quiet night, but as Kid had said, there didn't appear to be anyone home. Still, it was possible someone had been watching the approach to the house and had doused all the lights in an effort to hide.

He reached the door and knocked. Silence answered him. He tried the door and found it unlocked. "Federal Marshall," he called out as he slowly eased it open.

"Teaspoon?"

The voice was so faint he wasn't sure he'd heard it at all. "Is there someone here?" he said louder now. He didn't lower his gun as he peered into the dark corners of the front room of the house.

"Teaspoon!" It was louder now, but still faint. He knew the voice. So, apparently, did Kid.

"Lou!" Kid yelled back and Teaspoon returned to the porch. He thought to worry about all the yelling, but Lou had yelled first. She would know more of their danger than he would, and she obviously felt it was safe enough.

"Kid!" she yelled again. "In the shed!" And this time Teaspoon could hear the tears in her voice. He started down the steps but had to grab the railing. He felt like all the breath had been pushed out of his lungs and he couldn't fill them again. His legs felt like rubber, useless and unstable. Buck was dead. They were too late. First Ike and then Noah. Now Buck.

But his legs held him and his heart took over from his mind. Buck wasn't dead until he saw it with his own eyes. Right then he could see Kid in the moonlight carrying a lantern and sprinting for the shed. Teaspoon drew in a deep breath and pushed himself down the last few steps. Buck was in that shed, and he'd soon know one way or another.

* * *

Jenny poked the fire one more time and then laid herself down on the blanket. Ike was still up, checking the horse, he'd said. It was full-on night now, and they had ridden far, stopping to rest now and then. They'd reach Rock Creek in the morning.

Ike returned and sat down on his own blanket. He didn't lie down though. "Get some sleep," he told her. "I'll keep watch." He smiled, but again, there seemed to be something more in his eyes and every once in awhile she'd catch him looking off into the distance to the southeast. The way they'd come. Each time, she had a moment of fear that her aunt had sent someone after her and that they were being followed. But she was usually able to put that fear away quickly. Her aunt hadn't cared much for her and found her a burden. Why then would she want Jenny back? Besides, she felt safe with Ike. He always volunteered to keep watch and was up before her in the morning. In fact, she couldn't remember actually seeing him sleep, and yet he never seemed tired.

Jenny yawned and said goodnight. She closed her eyes to the stars and tried to imagine what the future would be like. Could she and Buck fall in love? She thought she could love him. Especially after talking with Ike, she felt like she knew him even better. She knew he was kind and thoughtful and quiet, but she had also seen that he was strong. Through all that he had suffered, he had remained merciful. He did not trust easily but when he did, his loyalty was absolute. He was also handsome though perhaps not in a way that other white women would appreciate. He dressed like a white man, but he was dark and tall. He let his hair grow long to frame his strong face. She'd only ever seen a slight smile on his lips but she remembered how it turned up on one side more than the other in an endearing way. Yes, she could love him, and she hoped she would.

* * *

The lantern swung as he ran, throwing a dim pool of light this way and that. Something, someone sat in the doorway, and Kid stumbled to a halt. The lantern slowed its swing. "In here!" Lou called, but Kid was stuck on the ghastly face the pool of light now held.

"Never mind him!" Lou scolded, and her tone pulled him away from the dead man and back to worry for his wife. "Hurry!"

Kid couldn't see her. The light from the lantern seemed brighter now that it didn't have to travel so far. However, crates boxed in the light, hiding Lou from him. But she was in here; he knew that. He moved forward and the light stretched a bit farther. He lifted the lantern high and leaned over the crates. He could see her face. And he could see the blood. He nearly dropped the lantern, imagining her chest torn open by bullets or worse.

But she spoke again and her voice was not filled with pain, but with worry. "We need to get him out."

Still, he was her husband, and she his wife, and he had to know for certain. Kid moved around the crates and knelt beside her. "Are you alright?" he asked, touching her face and noticing now the tracks that ran down her cheeks.

Anger burned in her eyes. "I'm fine!" she said, "Buck's not!" Kid felt that like a slap in his face, and he looked down to her lap. He could see now where the blood had come from. Not his wife, but his friend.

"I can't move him," Lou told him. "Not without hurting him more. But he needs to get out of here."

Kid heard her, but it didn't seem real. Time had slowed and pushed her voice away as he looked over his friend. Buck's eyes were half-open in a swollen and bloody face, but if his lips hadn't been moving, Kid might have thought he was already dead. No sound came from him except a soft, raspy breath, broken and uneven.

* * *

Teaspoon had frozen for a moment as well, just as the light of Kid's lantern had spilled onto Buck. Lou sat on the floor, cradling his head, while Buck held tight to her sleeve with one hand. But Lou's words had shaken him even while Kid was still transfixed by the sickening sight of what Teaspoon assumed the man in the doorway had done.

"Lou," Teaspoon said, pushing into the small space, "is there anyone else we need to worry about?"

Lou shook her head. "He said Indians killed his family. I saw graves. I killed him, Teaspoon."

Teaspoon just shook his head. The details could be worked out later. Only one thing was important now. Buck was alive, and he needed help to stay that way. He bent down and took one of Kid's arms, hauling the younger man to his feet. "Go to the house and get some blankets." He took the lantern, trusting that Kid could find another in the house.

Kid didn't answer. His face still held the shock; his mouth hung agape. "Why?" he asked. "Why would someone do this?"

"Not now!" Teaspoon ordered. "Go."

Kid nodded and brushed past him, leaving Teaspoon room to kneel. Very gently, he touched the side of Buck's face where it didn't seem so bruised. Buck flinched and tried to draw up one leg. Teaspoon pulled his hand back.

"Shh," Lou soothed. "It's Teaspoon. We're gonna get you out of here."

Teaspoon had to force his focus back onto Lou. He felt his heart was going to break looking at Buck, and his mind was what he needed now. "Where's he hurt?" he asked the girl, no, woman, beside him.

"Everywhere!" she cried softly, breaking loose into sobs now that help had come.

Teaspoon set the lantern on the far side of Buck and put his hand on her back. "Lou, we ain't got time for that. Just think, now, where is he hurt?"

She pulled in her breath and then nodded. "His arms. He's been in here for days." She nodded her head toward a table at the back wall. "They were hitched up there behind him. He couldn't move without tearing them off. His shoulder, because he was shot. His left arm is broken; I think his ribs, too."

Buck's face was obviously a source of pain as well, though not deadly. "His legs?"

Lou shook her head. "I think there's something wrong with the one. But it's not broken."

Teaspoon looked to see which one she was referring to and guessed it was the one Buck wasn't moving. Not that the other was moving much. He ran over her words again. Days. In here. "Water?"

"He won't drink it," she said. "He choked. He's awake, Teaspoon, but not. He said my name once, when I first found him, but that was hours ago."

Teaspoon heard footsteps pounding outside. Kid rushed back in and dropped down beside the lantern with a quilt and two blankets in his arms. Again, he stared at Buck, and Teaspoon had to make him move. "Spread them out. We're gonna get one underneath him so we can carry him out of here. Once we got it under him, Lou, you're gonna have to get that body out of the way. Then get to the house. Get some water heatin' on the stove. Then get your horse and high tail it back to town. We'll need the doctor out here."

She shook her head. "I'm not leaving him," she said. "Not now. Kid can go. He can take my horse. She's rested. But I'm not leaving Buck."

"We can take him home," Kid suggested.

Teaspoon was relieved he was at least talking and therefore thinking, even if he wasn't thinking right. And he decided Lou was probably right. Kid could go. He needed to be kept busy anyway. "We can't put him in a buckboard and jar him all the way back to Rock Creek, Kid. But you can put the Doc in one and bounce him out here. We're gonna take Buck to the house. Lou will set up a bed for him near the fire." He looked to her for confirmation and went on at her nod. "You'll take her horse and ride for town. Let Rachel know what's going on and get the doctor out here as soon as you can."

"But he could--"

Teaspoon held up a hand to cut him off. "He will if we put in the buckboard or leave him in this shed. You understand? Buck needs a doctor and you're gonna get one for him."

Kid finally gave up the fight and nodded. He began to unfold one of the blankets. Teaspoon directed him, first laying the blanket underneath Buck's head. Lou lifted him a little, which elicited more flinching and even whimpers from the semi-conscious Buck. As he and Kid pushed the blanket down Buck's back and upset Buck more in the process, Teaspoon wondered just what it was that was keeping the boy conscious at all.

Lou settled Buck's upper half down gently onto the blanket and had to pry his fingers from her sleeve before she was free to work the blanket down to his feet as Kid and Teaspoon lifted him just a few inches off the dirt floor. "Clear the way, and then get to the house," Teaspoon told her. "We'll need a bed to put him on."

Once she was gone, Teaspoon pointed to the other blanket. "Let's get that tucked in around him." Kid nodded and they unfolded the second blanket.

* * *

Lou didn't like the idea of touching the dead man, because he was dead and because of what he'd done to Buck. But she didn't want Teaspoon or Kid tripping over him while they carried Buck out either. So she grabbed his collar and pulled. The body toppled over onto its side and then began to move. It took both hands and a tight grip, but she didn't plan on moving it far. Just so long as it was out of the way. She fell down once as her feet slipped out from under her, but she braced one foot against the side of the shed and used it for leverage. As soon as the man's boots had cleared the doorway, she dropped him and ran for the house.

The house was small, only one floor, three rooms. She found two light beds in one of the rooms and dragged one into the main room near the fireplace. There was no fire and the coals were cool to her touch. There was wood though, piled next to the hearth. Starting with tender and kindling she piled some wood in the fireplace. She found matches on the mantle. She was trying to hurry, but her hands were shaking. She struck one match three times and threw it into the pile when it wouldn't light. She tried another but it broke. It seemed like hours were going by and she wondered why Teaspoon and Kid weren't there yet.

Finally, the match struck. She concentrated on holding her hand steady as she lowered the tiny flame to the wood. The smallest twigs took quickly, spreading the little flame to slightly thicker sticks until the fire was going well. She picked up a log and placed it in the flames and then placed another on top. She pulled a long twig, burning at one end, from the fire and moved quickly to the stove at the back of the room. She opened the door and scooped some coal with her own hand before placing the twig inside. She found a pitcher and bowl on the sideboard and poured the water off into a pan. She found more blankets and pillows in the bedroom and placed several, folded, onto the bed's thin mattress. She piled the pillows at one end, so that Buck could rest at an angle, which might help him breathe. She laid the other blankets over the foot of the bed to cover Buck once he was inside.

Rushing out the door, she met Teaspoon and Kid struggling with the blanket. She took one corner near Buck's head from Kid and they were able to move faster, though it still seemed a snail's pace to her. Buck was tall and heavy, and the blanket sagged in the middle. He tensed and moaned as they walked, but Teaspoon and Kid had wrapped him well. Still his eyes didn't close. He mumbled words Lou couldn't understand in between ragged breaths and coughing fits.

Teaspoon led the way at Buck's feet. Up the stairs and through the open door. Lou chanced a glance at the fire to be sure it was still lit. It was burning brightly now and beginning to warm the room.

"Easy now," Teaspoon said, as they lowered him onto the bed. Once down, Lou stroked Buck's face again, trying to calm him. He was shivering violently. Lou thought to cover him, but Teaspoon had his knife out. "I'll buy him a new coat," he said, shrugging. Then he began to cut. Lou pulled Buck's knife out from under her belt and started on other side.

Kid stopped her once, just long enough to kiss her cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll see if I can't bring some food and some more clean clothes." And then he was gone.

Lou felt a stab of loneliness when he left. She'd been so desperate for him to come, and it seemed that he was only there for an instant before he was gone again. She was tired. She wanted to collapse into his arms and let him hold her as she cried. But she knew there would be time for that later. Buck needed her now. She pushed her loneliness and pity down deep and went back to work.

* * *

TBC


	7. Chapter Seven

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Seven**

Buck's leather coat had taken quite a bit of work to cut away, but the shirt underneath was easier. Lou hadn't wanted to cut his vest. Buck had always worn it. It wouldn't be as easily replaced as a coat or a shirt. So they had compromised, cutting at the seams on the shoulders so that it could be laid open and slipped in one piece from beneath him and resewn later. Once the shirt and undershirt beneath had been removed, the full extent of Buck's wounds had become apparent.

One of his shoulders lay wrong on the bed, probably dislocated. An ugly hole, black in the dim light of the fire, oozed blood onto the blanket below him. The other arm was a mess. White bone poked through torn, bloody skin at his wrist. His chest and side were bruised down past his waist. His face, likewise, was bruised. His eyes were swollen so that they could barely open, but still he never closed them longer than to blink. He bled from several cuts and a split lip.

Every movement had caused Buck to react in pain. He twitched, tossed his head, groaned, but could not say anything coherent. And each movement Buck made, each sound, caused Teaspoon's stomach to turn. But he knew Buck would die for certain if they didn't clean and bandage his wounds. While they had worked, Lou had told him what had happened, about the plan to bring Jenny Tompkins to Rock Creek, about the stream, and about the shed. Buck had been in the shed for two, maybe three, days. The temperature would fluctuate from intense heat during the day to cold at night. And all that with no evidence of water for Buck to drink. Lou also didn't think he'd had a chance to sleep in all that time, tied up the way he was. There were dangers beyond his visible wounds, and Teaspoon didn't know what to do about those.

As the night wore on, Teaspoon had told Lou to bring in the other light bed and then ordered her to sleep. Buck still did not rest, though they had finished what ministrations they could offer. He lay shivering under a worn blanket and the thick quilt Kid had brought to the shed. The soft light of the candles Lou had lit reflected in Buck's half-open eyes that slowly closed only to be forced open again. Teaspoon tried telling Buck that he could sleep now, but Buck never seemed to hear him.

Teaspoon didn't think he could rest either, seeing Buck like this, knowing the boy could die in the night before the doctor ever came. He sat close and held Buck's right hand gently in his own. His hand was cold, so Teaspoon kept it covered, putting his own hand under the blanket. Buck's hand tensed and clutched his in return, but the grip was weak and Teaspoon could pull free easily if he wanted. Every few minutes, he dabbed a cloth in cold water and wrang the drops out over Buck's lips. It was the only way they had managed yet to get water in him.

Teaspoon didn't often sing, but he sang now. Softly, so as not to wake Lou, he sang a song his first Indian wife had taught him. It was a child's song, and Teaspoon had never really learned what the words meant. But it had a comforting sound, like a lullaby.

While he sang, Teaspoon's mind tried to make sense of what had happened. And it was all too easy. The man's family had been killed by Indians. Buck was an Indian. It all came down to blind hate and and falsely-placed blame. Teaspoon had seen it too often. Whether it was White against Indian or White against Black. Noah had been killed for the same reasons, though less directly. Hate and bigotry. So simple. So wrong.

The morning sun was just beginning to peak through the curtains when Teaspoon heard the sound of hooves approaching. Lou heard, too, and sat up from her bed. She looked first to Buck, stiffening until she saw him move and knew he had survived the night. Then she got up and went to the door. Kid had returned.

* * *

Ike had left her in the morning. He signed to her that he had other business to attend to, but that Rock Creek was only an hour's ride to the west. Jenny was sad to see him go, but he assured her she'd be safe. She thanked him and set out, arriving at the edges of town one hour later, just as he had said. She slowed her horse to a walk as she rode through town. Her stomach began to fill with butterflies. She was anxious to see Buck again, to see if this could work. But the doubts had snuck up on her as she neared the town. What if he didn't love her? What if she didn't love him? They really didn't know each other at all. What would her father say? Why did he have to be in the same town anyway?

She was past his store right then. He was just changing the sign on the front door. She watched him for a moment, remembering her anger, but also the letters he'd written since she'd left. She didn't hate him anymore. He looked up and she turned her head so he might not see her. She wanted to see Buck first. Her father would only ask what had brought her here and she didn't have an answer until she saw Buck.

The station, Ike had told her, was at the far end of town. She rode on until she reached it and then tied her horse to the post out front. No one was around outside, but it was still early, so she wasn't surprised. She lifted her small bag and walked up the steps. She remembered the other station house, staying there with her mother and Two Ponies and wanting only to leave.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. She didn't expect it to open as quickly as it did. Rachel looked older than when Jenny had last seen her. Her face was drawn and her hair was only loosely put up. Jenny worried at first that she had come too early and had gotten Rachel out of bed, but Rachel stood dressed before her.

"Jenny Tompkins?" she asked, her eyes widening with surprise. Jenny saw then that they were red as if she'd been crying.

Jenny tried to smile but the butterflies in her stomach had picked up their pace. Rachel hadn't know she was coming! Maybe Buck hadn't told anyone. Maybe he hadn't gotten her letter at all. No, Ike had said differently. But he hadn't said that anyone else knew. "Hello," she finally said. But then she couldn't think of anything else.

"Are you visiting your father?" Rachel asked, stepping back out of the doorway. "Oh forgive me. Please, come in. I'm a bit out of sorts right now." She held out her hand, waiting for Jenny to follow.

"It's early," Jenny apologized, stepping inside. "I'm sorry. I came to see Buck."

Rachel froze, her hand outstretched. Her skin paled and Jenny worried she'd faint. "Oh," was all she managed to say.

Jenny was beginning to feel sick. She had thought the white people might have some difficulty with what she had proposed to Buck, but she hadn't expected this haunted shock that now adorned Rachel's countenance. She tried to explain. "I realize, this isn't the way--"

"He's not here," Rachel said, dropping her hand, but looking even more concerned than before. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . he's been hurt."

Jenny felt her own knees become weak. Her bag was suddenly much too heavy to hold and it slipped from her fingers. "Hurt? Where?"

"He was going to St. Joseph. I'm not sure why."

Jenny was no different than the bag, heavy and slipping down to the floor. Rachel reached out and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to a chair. "St. Joseph?" she breathed.

Rachel nodded and placed a cup of warm tea in Jenny's hands. "Kid came rushing through here late last night to get some supplies and the doctor. He didn't know why Buck was going to St. Joseph. He hadn't had a chance to ask Lou."

"Me," Jenny told her. She couldn't look at the older woman though. She stared instead at the dark brown liquid in her cup. "He was coming to meet me. What happened?"

"I don't know," Rachel replied. She lifted the cup to Jenny's lips. "But it isn't your fault. He wanted to go. He and Lou had worked out a plan from what I can tell. She took his ride so he could go."

"Is it bad?" Jenny asked, hoping it was nothing more than a throw from a horse.

Rachel only nodded, and now that Jenny looked up, she could see the tears. Rachel had been crying all night.

* * *

Buck allowed himself a few seconds to rest his eyes when he heard the door close. But only his eyes, for no other part of his body could rest. His arms, hitched behind him as they were, had ceased to be useful appendages and had become, instead, agonizing restraints to the rest of his body. His legs below his knees had gone numb so that he hardly remembered he'd ever had feet. His knees were not meant to carry his weight for so long, and one of them burned no matter how cold the dark air around him became. Each breath he took was a renewed pain. He pulled his eyes open again when the pain in his arm flared.

There was a voice in the thunder that shook the walls. "Thought I'd left, didn't ya?"

The breath Buck had just taken froze in his chest. He couldn't look at the man. He couldn't lift his head. He felt the blow, though, and tasted the blood that ran from his mouth.

"That's what you get for sleepin'."

The blows kept coming, raining down in lightning flashes on his shoulders, his stomach, his face. Buck listened hard past the storm for the voice he'd heard before, but he couldn't find it.

* * *

"Can you give him something?" Kid asked, standing well back from the bed and the doctor who stood next to it. "He can't sleep."

"Or he won't," the doctor replied, touching Buck's forehead one more time. Buck flinched at the touch. "He's not conscious, not strictly speaking. But he won't sleep. He's forcing himself to stay awake."

"The shed," Lou said in a voice so quiet it was hardly more than a mumble. "The way he was tied, he couldn't sleep, not without hurting himself."

Teaspoon didn't like that Buck was in pain or that he couldn't rest, but he was more concerned with just one thing. "Will he live?"

Lou turned around toward the fireplace, but the doctor met Teaspoon's gaze. "I don't know. I'm honestly surprised he's lived this long. The bullet hit his shoulder, went right through. But it's been untreated for days. He's broken most of the ribs on his left side, possibly damaging the organs underneath them. He's dehydrated. The heat alone could have killed him. Or thirst."

"Can't you make him sleep?" Kid asked again, but quieter. "So at least he won't be in pain?"

"Not if you want him to have any chance at all," the doctor said. "He's dying, Kid. The only way he will live is if he wants to survive. He's fought this long, hasn't he? But his condition is far too precarious for anything I've got with me."

"Then let's take him back to Rock Creek."

Teaspoon put his hand on Kid's shoulder. "No. We're not moving him again. He's in enough pain now."

The doctor packed his things. "I've done what I can for him," he said. And Teaspoon knew that was true. Buck's left wrist had even been set and splinted. Buck had screamed at that and fought enough that Teaspoon and Kid had to hold him down. But still his eyes popped open again when it was finished.

"And so have you," the doctor continued. "Keep him warm and keep trying to get him to drink something, water or soup. Talk to him." He laid his hand on Teaspoon's shoulder. "Maybe he'll come out of it."

* * *

The horse was gone. The one she'd ridden in on and tied near the house. There weren't even any tracks near the post. Not that she cared really. Jenny had bigger worries. She worried for herself after coming all this way. Would she have to go to her father? She had no more money, no skills to benefit her in the white world.

But even more than that she was worried for Buck. Rachel didn't know where he was except that he was on his way to St. Joe. On his way to get her. Whatever had happened was because of her. She had sent the letter. He hadn't asked her to come. She asked him to take her.

"How did you get here?" Rachel asked quietly behind her.

They'd already talked about the letter. Rachel hadn't blamed her; Jenny managed that on her own.

When Jenny didn't answer, Rachel stepped up beside her and leaned on the porch rail. "I mean, how did you know to come if he wasn't there."

"Ike," Jenny said. _More than he even knows,_ she remembered him saying. "He said Buck wanted to come but he was held--" She stopped. If Ike knew Buck was in trouble, why hadn't he helped him? It didn't make sense.

Rachel turned to her, looking paler even then before. "Who?"

"Ike," Jenny repeated, though now she felt a little uneasy herself.

"No," Rachel said, shaking her head, "it couldn't have been Ike. It must have been someone else." She turned away and dropped into a rocking chair by the door.

Jenny turned toward her. "Why?" Ike was rather distinct, given his baldness and the sign language. Who else could it have been?

"Ike's dead," Rachel told her, though she didn't look up at Jenny. "He was shot. Months ago."

Jenny felt her knees go weak for the second time that day. She found the other chair and let herself down into it slowly. Ike was dead, but it was Ike who had brought her from St. Joe. It could not have been anyone else, and yet it could not have been Ike. She looked again to where the horse had been tied, and the horse was just as impossible as Ike was. She had never before seen a spirit herself, though she had heard her father--her Lakota father--talk about them. But it was the only explanation that made sense. Ike was a spirit, a ghost.

* * *

"Why did this happen, Teaspoon?" Kid asked. Lou had reluctantly ridden back with the doctor. Kid had his hat in his hands, and he bunched up the brim with his fingers. He faced the floor so he wouldn't have to see Buck.

Teaspoon wanted to look away, too. Whatever Buck was seeing and hearing must have been frightful. Buck's eyes weren't even trying to close anymore. He writhed under the blankets and cried out in words so quiet Teaspoon had given up trying to make them out. He felt helpless. He couldn't ease Buck's suffering; he couldn't comfort his fears.

"He's Indian," Teaspoon finally said in answer. "That's all that man needed to know."

Kid shook his head. "He had to have some kind of reason. He tortured Buck."

Teaspoon took a deep breath. He hated to hear that word, especially when it applied to one of his boys. "Do you think Buck deserved this?" he asked quietly as he caught Kid's eye.

Kid was quick to respond. "No! It's just--"

"There're four fresh graves out back. His family. Indians killed 'em."

"Buck didn't," Kid said. "He couldn't. He wouldn't."

Teaspoon shook his head. Kid sometimes seemed the youngest of all the riders because of his innocent trust in the goodness of life. There were times when Teaspoon appreciated that, and times when it was exasperatingly naive. "I'm sure he told Mr. Lathrop that at some point." The man had a name now. The doctor had supplied it, saying he'd been out here to treat the little girl the year before. "I don't think Lathrop cared if Buck did it or not. Indians did it and Buck's Indian."

"That's not right," Kid sighed.

"There ain't nothing right about it," Teaspoon agreed.

"What was he doing coming this way?" Kid asked. "He had a ride. Lou--"

"Kid," Teaspoon said, holding up a hand to stop him. "They decided this together. Lou offered to take the ride. It's nothing she ain't done before. She thought Buck had a right to maybe find someone he could be happy with. This is Jenny Tompkins we're talking about--Eagle Feather--not some mail order bride."

Teaspoon might have thought it odd if Jimmy or Cody had decided such a thing. But Indian ways were different, and Buck was disadvantaged in the game of romance in the white world. It hadn't escaped Teaspoon's attention that Buck rarely danced at the town functions. Lou and Rachel were his only regular dance partners. So Teaspoon felt that Jenny returning might be a good thing for Buck. He wouldn't have looked askance at it, had all gone well. Things hadn't gone well, but he wasn't going to let Kid lay blame on anyone but Lathrop.

"I'm just--" Kid tried again. "He could die."

Teaspoon sat beside him and placed a hand on Kid's shoulder. "He could live," he said. "That's what you gotta hold onto. He could live, and he'll need our help. He'll be a long time healing. But he can do it, if he doesn't give up. So we gotta not give up on him."

Kid still didn't look up. He shook his head. "You didn't see it Teaspoon. The way his own tribe treated him. He got that for being white. He gets the same for being Indian, and he don't deserve none of it. Maybe it'd be better--maybe he'd be better off--"

He didn't finish that sentence, and Teaspoon was glad for it. No one was better off dead. "I don't believe that, Kid, and I don't think you really do either."

* * *

Lou was tired from the ride even though she had gotten to sleep the night before. And she knew it was not sleep she wanted, but rest. She was drained and wanted nothing as much as to know that Buck would be well.

"Louise?"

Lou leaned against the horse and took a deep breath, wishing again that she had stayed behind at the house. But Kid had been up all night bringing the doctor, and he deserved the chance to sleep as she had. Teaspoon was not about to leave, so it fell to Lou to escort the doctor. And to bring the news back to Rachel.

She finished with the saddle and turned to face the older woman. But it wasn't just one woman she faced. Jenny Tompkins stood behind Rachel just inside the barn doors. "Eagle Feather!"

Jenny moved forward. "How is he?"

Lou was still lost in the shock. "You're here." Buck had not made it to St. Joe. How had she known to come?

"Louise," Rachel said again, her voice stern but strained from the worry that Lou could now see in her eyes. "How is Buck?"

* * *

TBC


	8. Chapter Eight

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Eight**

Jenny up-ended her bag onto the bed Rachel had offered her. She had few belongings anymore, but it did not distress her, nor did she think of herself as poor. She had viewed her aunt's many furnishings, paintings, dishes, and various other things as unnecessary excess that only served to remove her farther from the natural beauty of the world Jenny had shared with the Lakota.

In her attempt at assimilation, Aunt Sarah had bought several fancy outfits consisting of lacy chemises, crenoline slips, skirts, overskirts, corsetts, bodices, sleeves, gloves, shawls, and shoes. But she'd burned the one dress that Jenny felt comfortable in. The one that didn't confine her or squeeze the very breath from her lungs. The one that carried the scent of the deer that had given the skin and the fire and solutions that had tanned it.

In her leaving, Jenny had taken only one fancy dress--and not every layer of it--and the simpler dress she'd worn when she left Sweetwater. A small sewing kit to mend the dresses; a ribbon-bound stack of letters from her father. She'd sold her mother's mirror. The fire had taken her doe-skin dress and moccasins.

Only one thing remained in the bag; one physical thing remained of her life with the Lakota. She carefully unfolded the cloth from around it and laid out the fringes and smoothed the feathers. One of the beads had broken, but the feathers still held. She examined the web inside the small, leather-wrapped hoop.

Her aunt would call it silly superstition. Sister Maria would call it heathen. But the Lakota would say it kept evil spirits from reaching her in the spirit world. Jenny liked the way her mother had put it when she made it more than six years ago: The web catches nightmares, while good dreams pass through the center.

Jenny had saved the dreamcatcher from the fire that had consumed her dress and moccasins by hiding it under her mattress. At night, she'd remove it and hang it from her headboard. She'd awake early with the sunrise and hide it again. Considering the nightmare her waking world had become in the city, it had been a comfort for her, and she often returned to the Lakota in her dreams. Now she hoped it would provide a haven for Buck, lost as he was in the nightmare Lou had described.

Jimmy was already saddling his horse when she reached the barn. He had returned to the station less than an hour ago, thinking nothing was amiss. Lou had caught him in the bunkhouse and explained to him what had happened. Jenny had watched as he stormed back to the barn. It was then that she made her decision and ran back to the house for the dreamcatcher.

Rachel had called to her as she left the house, but Jenny kept going. Ike's spirit had brought her to Rock Creek for a reason, even knowing that Buck was in danger. He believed she could help.

Jimmy looked up as he tightened the last cinch. "Is there something I can do for you?" he snapped.

Jenny stung for a moment. She did not know Jimmy well enough to read him. Was he angry because he was upset and worried for his friend? Or did he blame her for the whole situation? It was her letter that had called Buck to St. Joe. Then she decided it didn't matter. She planted her feet and met his gaze. "I'm coming with you."

Jimmy shook his head. "Where I'm goin' ain't no place for a lady." He tried to move past her to lead his horse out but she didn't budge from her spot.

"It's a farmhouse," she argued.

"You know what I mean," he said, again trying to go around her.

She stepped aside for the horse but moved back again when Jimmy reached her. She stood nose to nose with him and said as fiercly as she could without raising her voice, "_Then I am no lady!_" She knew he probably didn't speak Lakota, but she was betting he'd understand her anyway.

Jimmy backed up a step, confirming her suspicions. But he hadn't given up entirely. "There are no fresh horses," he argued.

Jenny didn't budge. "Then I'll ride with you."

He was silent then, though she could tell by the slight movements of his jaw that he still wanted to find a reason to leave her behind. "I can help him," she added, taking a risk that he would only reject her further.

"How?"

She was not yet willing to tell of the dreamcatcher. "Can you pray for him?" she asked. "To the spirits he believes in? Do you even know who they are?"

"I don't believe in those spirits," he replied, but he said it quietly and cast his gaze to the ground.

"He does," she said. "And it might help him to hear those prayers himself. You can pray to your God. Someone is bound to hear us. Take me with you."

Jimmy sighed and dropped his shoulders. "How soon can you be ready?"

Jenny took the bridle from him and led the horse toward the door. "I'm ready now."

* * *

Jimmy was going to the farmhouse and Lou wanted to return as well. It had only been a couple of hours since she had returned to Rock Creek with the doctor, and she knew she was going back out in two days, but her mind kept playing over and over the scene where she had found Buck. Each detail provided another detail to what might have happened to him, the things he suffered. The reins around his wrists--or rather, right on the fractured bone--the table to which he was tied, the heat and then cold of the tin-walled shed, the odd position and swelling in his knee, bruises too many to count.

Teaspoon had worked out a lot of it. The shot to his shoulder first, then the bruising and broken ribs from the horse that fell on him. His wrist had probably broken then, too. In the daylight Teaspoon had seen blood on the door of the shed and in a path to the barn. Buck had nearly escaped. That is when his leg was likely injured. And that was probably when he was tied to the table and beaten repeatedly. For at least two days.

"You should eat something," Rachel said, breaking her thoughts. Lou looked at the plate of sandwiches that now sat between them on the table. Rachel looked as worn as Lou felt so it wasn't surprising that she hadn't cooked anything.

Lou thanked her and reached for a sandwich only to freeze with her hand in the air. She had made sandwiches for herself and Buck the day they had conspired together. She had hoped to draw their friendship closer. Less than a week ago. She had forgotten how quickly the world could come undone.

Rachel touched her hand. "Someone's got to stay here and keep the station running. We want to be ready when Teaspoon brings him home."

Lou knew the arguments but didn't voice them. She nodded and took a small bite of the sandwich, chewing it as she cried. No need to argue at all. Teaspoon would eventually bring Buck home. He just might be dead when it happened.

* * *

Kid had finally managed to fall asleep but Teaspoon couldn't even get himself to lie down. Buck's half-open eyes haunted him. It had been a full day since Lou had cut him loose and stopped Lathrop from torturing him further. But Buck still did not rest. Over and over Teaspoon had tried telling him that it was over, that he could close his eyes. His own voice was becoming hoarse from pleading. But Buck didn't hear him. He flinched away from Teaspoon's touch only to force his eyes wider.

Despite Teaspoon's brave words to Kid, he was just as afraid that Buck would die. And that he'd die like this, slowly and painfully, turned his stomach in knots. He would wish for a moment that Buck would draw his last breath and thus be spared more pain, but then he'd chide himself for not having hope.

He pushed any such thoughts aside and thought about how much he still wanted Buck in his life. There was still so much he didn't know about Buck. He knew of his older brother and figured he had taught him to track and shoot and ride. But who had passed on to him that gentle, quiet spirit or the fierce determination that had seen him through all the prejudices he had faced up to now? Was that his mother? He never said much about her. Teaspoon knew she'd been taken by force by a white man and nothing more. Had she rejected the child that was born from that violation, leaving him to be raised by his brother? Or had she chosen to love the child that the rest of the village scorned? He hoped the latter, and he wanted to get to know that woman, if only through Buck's memories. But if Buck died tonight, he would never know. He'd never know why Buck finally decided to try living in his father's world or how Ike and he had met and what had made them family.

Ike. Ike was already gone. The first of the boys to die. Teaspoon knew just as little about him as he knew about Buck. And Buck was now the only one who could tell him more about the silent but soft-hearted rider. Teaspoon knew that they had known each other before coming to the Express, unlike the other riders, but neither one ever opened up enough to say how long.

He realized that, in the beginning, their reticence came from a sense of self-preservation, as both of them were given precarious circumstances upon which to build their lives. Ike was bald and unable to speak, thought to be deaf or illiterate by many. And Buck was just Indian. Or worse to some: a halfbreed, as if that signified something dirty, for only a lowly sort would stoop to mating with an Indian.

They arrived at the Sweetwater station separately and stood apart from each other in line that first day. But Buck spoke up when Ike couldn't. Teaspoon remembered the wary look in his eyes, the fear and hope in Ike's. Buck had put them both on the line, Teaspoon realized. Or rather, he'd sacrificed himself for Ike. He could have stayed quiet and let Ike try to explain on his own somehow. But the relief Teaspoon felt from him, when Teaspoon made no more of it, wasn't for himself but for both of them. They stood apart to give each other the chance without dragging the other down, but Buck had made it clear, in his understated way, that they were a team.

It was clear what Buck's friendship offered to Ike: a voice. The Indians' sign language, used to communicate between differing tribes, allowed him to speak. But what Ike offered Buck was more subtle. Acceptance.

Losing Ike was like losing his anchor in this world. Buck had nearly given up on himself after Ike had died. He hardly ate or spoke. He never smiled. And then, he came back from a ride one day with a wagon, a woman, and a baby. And a bandage on his arm. Ever the mystery, he never told the story behind the bandage or the baby. But the woman was newly widowed and the baby newly born. His name was Ike. Buck never said so, but Teaspoon figured he was there when that child was born. That and the loss he could share with the woman somehow healed some of the hurt in himself. Buck returned that day.

What would it take now, Teaspoon wondered? If Buck lived. If doctoring could heal his body, what would heal his spirit?

Teaspoon heard the familiar patter of a horse's hooves and moved to look out the window. He stepped onto the porch as he recognized the horse and was not surprised to find that Kid had followed him out. He was surprised, though, to see two riders on Jimmy's horse, and long, blond hair flowing from the passenger.

Jimmy stopped the horse in front of the porch. He tried to help the girl down, but she had already bounded easily to the ground. There wasn't an Indian bone in her body, but the look in her eyes told him exactly who she was. Eagle Feather.

Teaspoon knew about the letter, but he was still surprised to see her. Buck had never made it to St. Joe.

Jimmy nodded toward her. "She thought maybe she could help. Lou told us."

Teaspoon nodded and touched the brim of his hat. "Miss Tompkins."

"Eagle Feather," she replied, nodding back. "I _can_ help."

Kid looked rather bewildered by the whole spectacle, but he'd been bewildered all day. Teaspoon let him be.

Jimmy, though, stepped up to the porch. "How is he?" he asked.

"He hasn't gotten any better," Teaspoon answered, feeling suddenly very tired. "He also hasn't gotten any worse. You can see him, but. . . ." He put a hand on Jimmy's shoulder. ". . . It's not easy seein' him." He turned to look at the young woman now. "Kid, why don't you go in with him?"

She wanted to go, too. She stepped onto the porch but stopped at the door. Teaspoon was glad he didn't have to try and stop her. He still had a lot of questions. Besides, Jimmy had known Buck a lot longer than she had. He deserved a bit of time.

He took a step away from her and looked out across the yard. "The doctor's already seen to him," he said, figuring Lou had probably already told her as much. "There isn't much more we can do to help him. He doesn't even know we're here."

Jenny stepped up behind him. "He's lost in dreams. He can't see us."

"He's not asleep," Teaspoon argued, but it was half-hearted and he knew it.

"He's not awake," she said. "I can help. It's why I've come."

Teaspoon turned back around to look at her. "That's not what you said in the letter."

"I said that if he didn't meet me in St. Joe, I'd understand and find a life for myself somewhere else."

"He didn't meet you there," Teaspoon replied, feeling like they were dancing up to something. He just wasn't sure what that something was.

She took a long breath, but she never broke eye contact. "Someone else did. Someone who knew him well enough to know what he wanted. And what he needs right now."

Teaspoon thought maybe he should be more concerned with what she thought Buck needed, but he could not get past the someone who had met her in St. Joe. Only Lou and Buck had known about the letter, and Lou had taken Buck's ride in the opposite direction.

She did not wait for him to ask. "Ike met me. He put me up in a hotel, bought me dinner and breakfast, and rode with me right up to Rock Creek."

Teaspoon couldn't move. Ike? Maybe she didn't know that he had died. But the set of her face told him she did. "How?" was all he could manage to say.

* * *

Jenny stepped through the door behind Teaspoon and nearly lost her nerve. Buck looked terrible and his suffering was obvious. He writhed on the bed and clenched the blankets that covered him. Jimmy still stood by the bed with one hand covering his mouth and chin.

"Can you really help him?" Kid asked. Buck had managed to convince them to let her try. His condition was that serious.

Teaspoon answered for her. "I think maybe she can." He put a hand on her back, gently pushing her further away from the door. He lowered his voice until only she could hear. "She comes highly recommended."

It had taken her only ten minutes to persuade Teaspoon to let her do this. Ike had made that easy. All she'd had to do was convince him of Ike. Who else looked like him, dressed like him, and spoke only with his hands? She recounted the whole journey for him, every conversation that wasn't just storytelling. She told him a couple of the stories, too--things she couldn't have known from her previous time in Rock Creek. Teaspoon had apparently lived long enough with Indians to not dismiss the idea of spirits out of hand. And seeing no other course of action, he said he'd let her try.

He addressed the other riders again. "Why don't you boys see to Mr. Lathrop? We ain't got no box for him, but he can't stay out there any longer."

Kid didn't look pleased with the idea. Jimmy just looked confused. Jenny wondered who Mr. Lathrop was.

"Put him with his family out back," Teaspoon added, "and then get cleaned up."

Jenny remembered seeing some graves as she and Jimmy rode in. Jimmy did, too, it seemed. His hand dropped to his side. "He's the one that's done this?"

Kid just pulled on his arm. "Come on, Jimmy." They brushed past her out the door.

Teaspoon touched her shoulder. "I'll be right outside." Then he turned and left as well.

Jenny slowly stepped closer to the bed. It wasn't like she'd imagined on the ride. Despite Lou's description, she'd expected him to be more awake or more asleep than he actually was. She didn't expect him to move and twist and grimace in pain. It was frightening. She forgot what she was there to do. She didn't know how to help him. He was already bandaged. She had no salve, no poultice, no herbs beyond a bit of sage. Nothing but the dreamcatcher, and what could a little hoop of wood and leather do to help Buck?

Then she remembered her mother. Running Bear had come back one day from a hunting party with a young man whose leg had been broken in such a way that his foot faced backwards. Jenny had twinged at just a glance, but her mother had set right to work. She comforted the young man, talking and singing to him, stroking his face and holding his hand, as the medicine man set the bones and splinted his leg. Jenny remembered asking her mother how she could even look at it. "It was hurting the boy a lot more than it was hurting me," her mother had said. "Something needed doing, Jenny, and there wasn't time for me to not do anything. You just have to look past the unpleasant and do what's needed."

Something needed doing now and Jenny knew her mother's words were right. There wasn't time to not do anything. Jenny unwrapped the dreamcatcher on the second bed and gently lifted it up. Then she looked around Buck's bed for a suitable place to hang it. There was a picture on the wall near him that she could take down. But that would put the dreamcatcher against the wall, leaving no room for the good dreams to pass. There was a lantern hook on the wall as well, which would hold the dreamcatcher out aways, but it was too far away. The bed, itself, had two posts at the head and smaller ones at the foot. But the loop on the top of the dreamcatcher was too small to fit around one of them.

Beginning to panic, she spun around, trying to find something, someway to hang the dreamcatcher. She could use the fire to light the sage; she could pray to the spirits, but Buck's problem lay in the dreams that wouldn't release him. There was the other bed, the stove at the far end of the room, curtains on the windows, a rocking chair in one corner, a doorway to another room, a table in another corner. Wait. She turned back. On the floor by the rocking chair was a small stool with a cloth cushioned top. Her aunt had such a thing, and inside it she kept her sewing supplies and knitting needles.

Jenny opened it and found just what she had hoped. Needles and threads, small scissors, thimbles and buttons, but also a small ball of yarn and a knitting needle. She took up the scissors and yarn and went back to the bed. She cut a piece of yarn twice as long as the bed was wide. She folded it in half and tied one end over one of the posts near Buck's head. She then passed the other end through the loop on the dreamcatcher and tied it to the other post. The dreamcatcher now hung freely.

She pulled the sage from her pocket and took a small twig from the wood pile. She held it in the fire until the tip began to burn. Then she brought it out and lit the sage. When the sage caught, she blew it out and threw the twig back into the fire. She knelt beside Buck's bed and began to pray, moving the sage back and forth over him so that its fragrant smoke could cleanse him.

* * *

TBC


	9. Chapter Nine

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Nine**

Rain thrummed on the tin roof like a thousand drummers. Thunder rumbled and shook the walls. Buck exhaled. He inhaled and exhaled again. And even that was difficult. His lungs resisted his efforts to expand them, while his ribs, jagged and sharp on his left side, stabbed at them. His whole torso had to lift just to pull the air in, and that movement sent long tendrils of pain shooting down his arms. But not to his fingers. They had long since numbed. He inhaled. It was all he could manage.

The door screeched open and that breath stuck in his lungs. He could not lift his head to see, but he counted the footsteps he heard. It took him a few seconds to realize that he could hear them. The thunder had stopped, and the rain had lost half its force. The footsteps stopped right in front of him, and Buck let out his breath and waited for the first blow to fall.

"I think it's time you left this place." That was not the man's voice. There was no anger in it, no hatred. There was sadness instead, but not the murderous grief the man had used against Buck. Buck had never heard this voice with his ears, and yet it was familiar.

* * *

Jenny stopped praying when she realized Buck had stopped moving. She froze, fearing that it had all been for nothing and now Buck was dead. The door behind her opened and someone hurried across the room to her.

"You stopped," Teaspoon whispered. At first, he had taken the silence and stillness as a sign of Buck's death, but as he drew closer, he could see that Buck was, indeed, still breathing. His eyes had finally closed and his body relaxed into unconsciousness. Jenny did not take her eyes off Buck. She wiped at her eyes which were wet with tears and then slowly touched his face, but Buck did not even twitch.

"You did it," he said, sitting behind her on the empty bed.

Jenny turned her head and Teaspoon's attention was drawn to the dreamcatcher hanging between the bedposts. It looked as if the small hoop and web had done just what Indian tradition said it would. But Teaspoon couldn't help the sick feeling in his stomach at seeing Buck so still. Was he really better this way or just more comfortable? Was he farther from this world now that he couldn't feel the pain?

"If he's still like this in the morning," he finally said, "we'll take him home."

* * *

Buck heard the owner of the voice as he knelt before him, and Buck noticed now that the rain had ceased altogether. Some of the chill began to leave him. "Buck," the voice said again, "give me your hand. You don't have to stay here. This is over and you've got a very important choice to make."

Buck tried to raise his head and found that he could. "Ike?" he asked, and the figure before him smiled. It looked just like his friend. It held Ike's wide hat in its hands. A bandana covered its smooth head. Buck shook his head. "Ike died."

The smile disappeared. "Yes, I did. But I didn't go far."

"Your voice," Buck said as he lowered himself onto his ankles. "Ike didn't speak."

The figure did not answer at first, but looked pointedly at each of Buck's hands. Buck blinked and looked himself. He held his hands up and turned them over, touching his fingertips together. He could see them, as they were no longer hitched behind him. He could feel them; the cruel ties were gone.

The figure spoke. "I did," it said. "You gave me my voice. And you could always hear it. I moved my hands as you taught me and you heard my voice."

Buck dropped his hands to his lap, noting with some small part of his awareness that he felt no pain in doing so, and stared at the figure, who smiled softly back at him. Something wasn't right, but it wasn't the figure in front of him. It was himself. There was no pain in his hands, his wrist, his ribs, his knee or any other part of his body, and yet he could feel. He hadn't eaten for days, but he wasn't hungry. He had been denied sleep, but he wasn't tired.

The figure's smile went away again. "It's a very important choice," Ike said, standing, and Buck knew it really was Ike.

Ike offered his hand. Buck took it and let Ike help him to his feet. As he stood, the darkness of the shed brightened and the walls and boxes and table faded away. A soft, cool breeze blew across Buck's face as the sunlight warmed his skin. He took a deep breath of the crisp air, filling his lungs hungrily after their prolonged deprivation.

Ike's hand touched his shoulder. Bucked turned to look at him, still bewildered that his friend was there. Buck reached for his shoulder, too, worried that Ike would vanish as soon as his fingers brushed his coat. But he did not vanish. He felt solid beneath Buck's fingers, and relief flooded through Buck so quickly that he nearly collapsed.

Ike caught him and they both ended up on their knees. "I missed you," Buck said in a whisper that was half-sob and half-joy.

Ike helped him up again. "I know," he said, "and for that, I'm sorry. I never meant to leave you alone like that."

Buck shook his head, happy enough at seeing his friend to outweigh the grief he'd felt since he lost him. "It doesn't matter now. You're here. You're real."

Ike sighed. "That's what we need to talk about."

The joy faded as Buck took in the look on Ike's face and his surroundings. Remembering his earlier misgivings, he wondered how he came to be standing on the plains when he'd been tied in that tin shed. It all seemed real, felt real, but Buck remembered what had happened. Both to him and to Ike. None of it could be real. "Am I dead?" Buck asked him.

Ike didn't exactly answer. "Let's take a walk." He held out a hand to the west, and, strange and impossible as it all was, Buck trusted him enough to follow.

* * *

Jimmy pushed the last bit of dirt onto Mr. Lathrop's grave and stepped back, leaning on the shovel. They'd found it in the shed, beside the table. Jimmy hadn't been in there before. He had expected to see some horrible torture chamber with chains and whips and whatnot. But it was just a shed, like any other. There were boxes and crates of tools and nails and such. There was a saw, a rake, a hoe, a shovel. The only difference was the blood on the table and the floor around it. Buck's blood. It made him sick.

Kid took off his hat and held it over his chest.

"What are you doin'?" Jimmy asked, barking more than he had intended to.

"He's dead, Jimmy," the Kid answered. "I'm just saying something over his grave."

"He don't deserve no prayers, Kid." Jimmy threw down the shovel. "You saw what he did to Buck."

"I don't claim to understand it, Jimmy," the Kid argued, "but he had reason, in his own mind. His family is here. Four fresh graves. Indians killed 'em."

"So that made it right for him to torture Buck like he did?!" Jimmy couldn't believe what he was hearing from the Kid. Kid could be naive at times, and too goody-goody for his own good, but this was going too far. "Buck didn't have anything to do with this!"

Kid put his hat back on and looked up at Jimmy. "I'm not saying I think it was right. I don't think anything can make what happened to Buck right. I said he had reason in his own mind. He wasn't right in his own mind. He was crazy with grief and anger and he couldn't see straight. He might have been a good man before all this happened."

Jimmy was still angry. "So for that, you pray over his grave?" He was hot and tired, and he smelled bad from dragging the body over to the grave site. He hated the man for what he'd done to Buck. He didn't see any reason to pay him any respect at all.

"Jesus died for sinners, Jimmy," Kid said, "and this man was a sinner. It ain't our place to judge."

"The hell it ain't!" Jimmy shot back. "Lou judged him fine when she put a bullet into him."

"I meant his soul!" Kid said. "Lou stopped him hurtin' Buck, and I'm glad for that. Let's just go get cleaned up. I want to see how Buck's doing."

Jimmy was still fuming, but he did hear what Kid was saying, and to Kid's credit he hadn't taken up Jimmy's invitation to fight. Jimmy didn't follow him in though. Not just yet. He was still angry, but it wasn't really Kid he was angry with. It was Lathrop, and Jimmy couldn't do anything to Lathrop to make up for what he'd done to Buck. Because Lou had already done it. He was worried for Buck. He'd buried too many friends already. And there was nothing he could do to help Buck, either. He was frustrated and he knew he had taken it out on the Kid.

Growling, because he had nothing better to do, Jimmy threw the shovel onto the grave and followed where Kid had gone. He was surprised to find him just around the corner of the house, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. "We could tie a couple of horses to that shed and tear it down," Kid suggested with a smirk. "Might make us feel better at least."

Jimmy smiled and shook his head. "Let's get cleaned up."

* * *

Buck and Ike walked in silence at first, and, despite his many questions, Buck was glad for it at that time. He had been deprived of the sun, the grass, the trees. And now the sun was shining, warming his skin, adding a golden hue to the warm autum colors around him. The only sounds were the soft breeze, the chirping of birds, and the crunch of dried leaves beneath his feet.

As he took his surroundings, he began to realize that he knew the trees, the grass, the sky. He could not name the place, but somewhere in his memory he had the knowledge that he had been there before.

"You were born here," Ike said, as if he could read Buck's thoughts.

Buck stopped, causing Ike to stop with him. He turned, looking around at the place. Suddenly, tepees stood where bare grass had been as he and Ike had passed. And there were other noises, voices he knew, speaking harshly in the Kiowa tongue. "_It is a white child!_"

Buck turned away and the voices and the village disappeared. Ike watched him, his face drawn in sadness. "Wasn't anyone happy when you were born?" He started walking again.

But Buck had questions of his own. "How?" he asked, planting his feet. "How am I here? How are you here? You saw it. How was it there? There is no village here now, and that--" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "That was years ago. How?"

"How isn't important," Ike replied, still walking.

"What about why?" Buck demanded. He chanced one more glance over his shoulder and the village was still there. He heard his mother crying, his aunt yelling. He turned away and the sounds of the village vanished, leaving him alone with just Ike.

"Because of your decision." Ike's head was down and he kicked the earth as he walked. "You have to see all sides of it: past and present, white and Indian, good and bad."

Buck caught up with him and grabbed Ike's elbow, spinning him around. "What decision? What choice? Enough games, Ike. I'll go with you but I want a straight answer for once. What choice?"

Ike looked him in the eye and sighed. "Your future."

Buck met his gaze and didn't release his elbow. "What about it?"

Ike took a deep breath and pulled his arm free. "This isn't real, Buck, not like you know it. I'm not real and you're not real. The real you is dying."

Buck took a moment with that information, laying it over the sky, the grass, and Ike. He remembered the shed, the man, his prayers to the spirits. Perhaps they had heard him after all.

"You're dead," he told Ike again, testing his theory.

Ike nodded.

"And I'm dying."

Ike nodded again.

"This is the spirit world," Buck concluded.

Another nod.

Buck looked around again, avoiding what was behind him. He knelt and picked a few blades of grass. "It looks a lot like the world I grew up in."

Ike's lips tipped up on one side. "Except it doesn't play by the same rules."

Now it was Buck's turn to nod. "The choice is about my future, and I'm dying." He stood up. "I already made that choice."

Ike shook his head. "You were under pressure and in pain. You couldn't see all sides. That's why I brought you here."

"I begged to die, Ike. I thought the spirits had abandoned me. Why didn't you come then?"

"I did," Ike said. "You couldn't hear me. You couldn't see me. You wouldn't close your eyes. I needed something and it took time to get it there. I brought you here as soon as I could."

Buck read honesty in his face and believed him, though he wondered what the thing was that he had needed. "So I get to choose now? Live or die?"

Ike nodded. "But don't decide too quick. You're not the in the shed anymore. The one who put you there is dead. Lou found you. Teaspoon and Kid found her. They took you to the house. That changes things, doesn't it?"

Lou. He had heard Lou. He'd lost her again and thought it was only a dream. But she was really there. Buck remembered their conversation before he'd left. 'Nothing can go wrong!' she'd said and he had been encouraged by her enthusiasm. He'd had a chance that morning. A chance at happiness after the Pony Express. A chance that he wouldn't be alone after the loss of the Express took his job away, his reason for staying with Teaspoon and Rachel and the other riders. They had become like family to him, but it was the job that had brought them together and kept them together until the war started pulling them apart. Even before his trip to St. Joe, his future had become uncertain at best. But the shed had reminded him that his life was seldom 'at best.' He had family now and then--his mother and brother, then Ike, then the riders and Teaspoon--but it was never permanent. He had moments of peace and happiness, but it never lasted. What he had that lasted was the look of disdain in other people's eyes when they looked at him, the ache in his chest when he wasn't included, the pain in his body when they beat on him. Would that ever stop?

"I don't think so," he finally answered.

* * *

TBC


	10. Chapter Ten

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Ten**

The sky grew dark and Buck hadn't moved. Underneath the swelling and bruises, he seemed peaceful. His breath was still uneven and too shallow for Teaspoon's liking, but Buck appeared to be beyond the pain. Buck was finally asleep, and-- though he was not out of danger--Teaspoon was thankful for that at least.

Teaspoon was starting to feel the lack of sleep himself. He'd been awake since before his return to Rock Creek. A long ride to town had led to a long ride out here and an even longer night. And another night. Even in his younger days as a Ranger, Teaspoon had rarely been called upon to stay awake for three days straight.

Jenny had taken over the role of nurse, and Teaspoon was impressed with how naturally it came to her. She had found some food in the kitchen cabinets and cooked it, while boiling water for bandages at the same time. She had at least a sheet worth of torn cloth drying on a bit of string strung from one side of the room to the other. She had removed blood-soaked bandages and replaced them with clean ones, and, Teaspoon noted, she did so without any sign of embarrassment for what she saw of Buck in the process. White women were so much more modest, he mused. He liked that about them at times, but at others, like now, it was impractical. Growing up Indian as she had, Jenny had probably seen plenty of male bodies as a matter of course.

Kid and Jimmy had marveled at Buck's peacefulness as well, when they had come in. Teaspoon sent them out again, to see to the horses and the buckboard in the barn. He was finally starting to hope that Buck would survive. At least long enough to die at home, surrounded by the ones that loved him.

The boys were sent to sleep in the other room. Teaspoon offered the extra bed in the main room to Jenny, but she had offered it to him instead. "You look like you haven't slept in a week," she said, giving him a slight smile. "I will keep watch over him."

Teaspoon looked in her eyes and knew she wouldn't leave the room even if he had to drag her. And she had slept the night before. _Chivalry be damned_, he thought, yawning. If he didn't get any sleep this night, he was likely to fall right off his horse in the morning. "I know you will," he told her. "And I do need the rest. But I'll be right here and expect you to wake me if anything happens. Anything at all."

Jenny surprised him then, by moving forward and placing a light kiss on his cheek. "My father can't understand how I can call Running Bear my father. But you can, can't you?"

Teaspoon could. "Family doesn't always come from blood," he said, nodding. "I may not be Buck's father, but he's my son. All these boys are." He sat down on the side of the bed and his muscles rejoiced.

Jenny sat down on the floor between the two beds. "My mother used to say," she said, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear, "that this world was full of heartache and hurting. We should be grateful for the love and happiness we find, even if it's only for a short while. She said that when we were captured. That we should be thankful for the time we had with my father. But she said it again through the years as we lived with the Sioux. We were loved there. I remembered it when she died, and held tight to it at Aunt Sarah's. But it wasn't enough. I think sometimes you have to go out and find that love and happiness for yourself and not wait for it to come to you."

"And still be thankful," Teaspoon added. "I think you're right. I think Buck thinks so, too. He was on his way to get you."

Jenny ducked her head. "I'm sorry this is what came of it."

"Don't be," Teaspoon said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You didn't know this would happen. Buck has made that run a hundred times. None of us thought something like this could happen. Buck has had to face a lot of hate in his life. That's what this was. I wish I could shield him from it, but I can't do that without takin' away his freedom. The important thing is that we found him, we love him, and we're going to do our best to help him through this."

Jenny nodded and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is this what it's going to be like for Two Ponies?" she whispered as she gently rubbed Buck's hand.

Teaspoon didn't know what to say to that. He remembered the child, her brother. Two Ponies, like Buck, was a half-blood. Unlike Buck, he was welcomed and loved by his tribe. But the future of the Indians in America didn't look too bright. The whites kept pushing farther and farther into the Plains. The telegraph and railroads were as much a threat to the Indian way of life as they were for the Pony Express. Would Two Ponies end up on a reservation? Would he be put in a mission school to be beaten and teased? Teaspoon couldn't tell her all that. She probably knew it already. So he just squeezed her shoulder and lay down. She touched his hand and then stood to help draw the blanket over him.

"You'll wake me?" Teaspoon asked again.

She nodded. "If anything changes."

* * *

Red Bear woke when a hand touched his shoulder. He bolted upright, immediately alert, and reached for the knife he kept at his side at all times. But the hand was only his wife's. "The Man of Dreams," she whispered, trying not to wake the children.

Red Bear looked past her to the opening that served as a doorway to their tepee. Indeed The Man of Dreams was standing there, his white hair gleaming in the starlight. He raised one hand and beckoned Red Bear to come. Then he left, releasing the flap so that it fell against the hide wall. Red Bear kissed his wife on the cheek and stood up. He quietly gathered a buffalo blanket to guard against the chilly night air.

When he stepped out, he saw the Man of Dreams about a stone's throw away. Again, he beckoned and Red Bear followed. The old man walked slowly, so it was not hard to catch up. "What has happened?" Red Bear asked him.

"Your brother is coming," the old man answered as he led Red Bear to the sweat lodge.

* * *

Buck and Ike were walking west, in the direction of the setting sun. But the sun was setting quickly, which was somewhat unsettling for Buck. In less than five minutes the sky had gone from bright blue to the star-speckled black of night. He didn't question it though, not aloud. Ike had said the spirit world didn't play by the same rules.

Every once in awhile, Buck had chanced a look over his shoulder and always the village was there. It was different though. New faces had appeared, children he knew from his childhood. Each time they seemed a little older than before. And sometimes he even saw himself. He glanced back now and the village was there, bathed in daylight. He saw himself, only seven or eight, pushed into the dirt by an older boy whose friends laughed around him. He turned back and the laughter died away.

Only now there was another village in front of them. And this one didn't go away when he turned his head. No one stirred except for the dogs and horses. There were sentries about, dog soldiers who stood watch on the village, but none seemed to notice Buck or Ike as they approached. There was something different about this village than the one Buck saw behind him. He looked again and the old village was there, still in daylight, only now he was a little older and there was a white girl talking with him, Little Bird.

"This way," Ike said, and Buck turned back to the night and the quiet village before him.

The old village always seemed to stay just behind him, maybe fifty yards. Though they had walked for hours, the village had moved with them. This one, though, stayed in place so that he and Ike were walking into it. It did not move away. Smoke billowed slowly up from the tops of the tepees and the faint glow of fires cast silhouettes of sleeping people on the sides. He recognized one of the tepees. It was as familiar to him as his own skin. Red Bear.

But they did not stop at Red Bear's tepee. "He's not in there," Ike said, again seeming to know what was on Buck's mind. Buck didn't answer though he wondered why his brother wasn't there. If this was again his past with the village, his brother would be there. His brother was always there.

Ike turned around a tepee and stopped in front of a sweat lodge. Smoke rose from its roof, too, though generally no one used the lodge at this time of night. Buck could hear chanting inside. Two voices. One belonged to his brother.

* * *

Red Bear set the bowl of bitter liquid beside him and joined the Man of Dreams in his song. He called to the spirits to allow him to see the spirit world where the old man said his brother walked. Red Bear's heart ached at those words. He had known that Buck would not fare well in the white world, though he also knew he had not fared well with the Kiowa. He would have given his brother a happy life if he'd been able. If the whites had not continued to push into Kiowa land, to kill Kiowa children, to lie and cheap and rape. But then if they had not, Buck would not have been born. Such cruel irony it was. To hate that which caused the creation of someone he loved. But if there had been no enmity between the whites and the Kiowa, if their mother's rapist had been only a rogue villain, the Kiowa would have accepted Buck as one of them, even as they had accepted Little Bird in time after finding her out on the plains. The Kiowa were not a cruel people, but cruelty meted out to them had led them off the way of peace, forced them to harden their hearts in order to protect themselves.

Nearly two years had passed since Red Bear had seen Buck. Since he had let him go. He had tried to warn him that his new family would fade in time. He hadn't wanted to crush his brother's heart, but only to keep him from sorrow. He could see that, indeed, the love between him and the hairless rider was very strong. But the brotherhood of the riders was built on circumstance and circumstance changes with time. Red Bear wasn't ignorant of the white world. He knew that there were fewer runs now of the Pony Express. He had seen the wires being strung up all across the plains. Somehow the whites used the wire to carry messages to one another though they were far apart. Faster than the Pony Express. A trader had told him that, astonishment shining in his own eyes as he did. If it was faster than the Pony Express then the Pony Express was finished. What then would become of Buck's new family?

But now the Man of Dreams said Buck walked in the spirit world. So the worst had happened. Running Buck was dead. Red Bear sung with the Old Man as his heart bled for his younger brother. He had closed his eyes and he felt now the solidity of the ground under him give way. He was sitting, but he felt himself stand. He was with the Man of Dreams, but now he was alone. He was inside, but now he stepped out.

* * *

Buck stepped back and might have fallen if Ike hadn't grabbed his arm. Red Bear suddenly stood before them, in the sweat lodge. His older brother seemed surprised, too, to see him. He stepped through the lodge and gathered Buck up in a strong embrace as he turned his face to the night sky and thanked the spirits for granting his wish.

Buck didn't know what was happening, but he felt his brother's arms around him, crushing his ribs in his tight embrace. He smelled the familiar scent of tanned deer hide and smoke. Red Bear released him, taking only his shoulders in his two hands and holding him at arm's length. "I have missed you," he said, and Buck could see the tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

Buck grabbed Red Bear's arms in return, amazed at how real they felt. He looked to Ike who only smiled and offered no explanation.

"And I will go on missing you," Red Bear continued, "all the days of my life. You are Kiowa. You are my brother. And now you walk with the spirits."

Buck felt his own throat constrict at the sadness in his brother's voice. Red Bear had always been there, had always been kind, had always accepted Buck, even when the rest of the village had scorned him for it. "I have missed you, too. But I'm not dead. Not yet."

"I do not understand," Red Bear said, looking now to Ike for an explanation.

"He's dying," Ike told him, surprising Red Bear with his voice, and Buck with the language. Ike was speaking Kiowa. "He has to choose."

Red Bear turned to face him more fully. "You are the silent one. How is it you speak?"

Ike gave him a slight smile and shrugged. "I _am_ dead."

"And the spirit world doesn't play by the same rules," Buck added, repeating Ike's earlier words. He turned his brother back around. "I get to choose to live or to die. Something bad happened to me and now I'm dying."

"Unless he chooses to live," Ike said.

"What happened?" Red Bear asked, grabbing Buck's shoulders again in his concern.

Buck shook him off. "Please. I don't want to say. It is too hard and it will only make you angry." He had turned away as he spoke, but he had dropped his gaze to the ground. It wasn't until he looked up that he noticed the change. He was in a tepee now and Red Bear was in front of him. His shoulders shook with silent sobs and Buck knew why.

Red Bear moved aside and Buck watched himself, younger even than he had last seen, kneeling on the ground beside the still form of his mother. The young boy that he was then could not keep his crying silent and his sobs wrenched the watching Buck's heart.

He remembered, and the pain was no less now that he was older. His legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. "Not this," he begged. "Please, Ike, not this."

"I don't control it," Ike replied, his voice laced with sympathy.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders. "What is it, my brother?"

"Do you not see our mother?" Buck asked, pointing toward her body and the boy he used to be.

"I see nothing, Running Buck," was his answer.

"Then you are better off," Buck said. His mother had been his protector and shield, his friend and one half of the only family he had in the whole world. She withstood the scorn of the entire village for him, forsaking all other family, save her sons. She had thrown her lot in with the child she had loved even though he had been forced upon her through an act of violence and violation. And now she was gone. Again.

"Turn away, Buck," Ike prodded gently.

"Why can't I see her, talk to her?" Buck sobbed. "I see you. You're dead."

"You will see her someday," Ike replied. "Please just turn away now. You brother is here. Talk to him. We can't stay long."

Red Bear must have understood enough of what was happening--if only that his brother saw something painful--because he lifted Buck from the ground and turned him to face himself. "You must choose life, my brother!" he said.

The tepee had faded as he turned, but the pain had not. This pain, the loss of his mother, was the worst he had ever felt in his life. Worse even than the shed. Only Ike's death could compare. "Why?" he asked, allowing himself to just be held by his brother.

"Because life is more than the pain," Red Bear told him, "more than the sorrow. There is joy, too, if you will see it."

"Not for me," Buck replied, feeling the weight of it all pulling him down to his knees again. But Red Bear held him up.

"Yes," he said, "even for you. Do you not remember our mother's love? Do you not remember how she could make you smile no matter what anyone else had said? Do you not remember Little Bird? And what of your brothers in the Pony Express? Did you never laugh with them? Did they not return your feelings?"

He did remember. Everything. But it was all temporary, all just momentary lapses in a life filled with disappointment, hatred, and hurt. "They don't last," he said. "Our mother died. Little Bird was taken back by the whites; the Pony Express is ending. What kind of future do I have if I live?"

"You can come back to us!" Red Bear held him at arms length again, and his eyes smiled at the suggestion. "Choose life and come back to us. You are Kiowa. You do not belong in the white world."

A part of Buck had never wanted to leave, but two other parts had been unable to stay. One remembered the scorn of his tribe. The other loved them but saw the futility of their fight. Buck looked at Red Bear now, and with the loss of his mother and Ike fresh in his heart again, he knew he could not face losing his brother to death. "I am also white," he said, not wanting to dash the hope his brother may have in victory or justice. "I can't."

"Because we can't win?" Red Bear asked. "You do not have to protect me, little brother. I know what we face. But we may survive. And a life's worth is not found in how long one lives, but in how one lives. We will live with honor as long as we may. We will remain true to ourselves. We will remain Kiowa. You have proved yourself. Come back to us."

"And bear the mistrust of every person here who has lost someone to the whites?" Buck asked him in return. "It doesn't change, Red Bear."

"Do you get better with the whites?" Red Bear's voice hardened in anger, but his face did not.

Buck dropped his gaze. He had gotten the same or worse from Tompkins, from the townspeople, from the Army, even from the other riders at least once. "Some of the whites," Buck said, thinking of Teaspoon and Emma and Rachel. "From some of them."

Red Bear sighed. "Then live and find your happiness with them. I wish I could give you the world, Running Buck. Our mother wished it for you. But you do not need the whole world. Make for yourself a place in this world, even if only a small place. Do not choose death, little brother. You are too young yet for that. There are still joys yet to be found in life. The sun rises, the rain falls. Children play. Even in this life there are joys that are worth more than all the sorrows."

* * *

Red Bear watched his younger brother's face, hoping for some change. Buck looked up at him, but did not answer. His eyes though showed his struggle with his choice. His hope had not been completely crushed by whatever had happened, but it had never been so strong. Even as a child, Buck was like a deer caught in a fierce storm. He found shelter now and then, but always the storm found him, forced him out into the wind again.

There was still a child in Running Buck's eyes. He wanted to believe his brother's words, but he could still hear the wind howl. Why was so sweet a spirit handed so hard a life? Their mother had asked that in quiet moments when Running Buck was sleeping and only Red Bear could hear. Red Bear had asked it himself many times over the years.

The spirit of the silent one made his presence known again. He placed a hand softly on Running Buck's shoulder and whispered, "We have to go."

Red Bear didn't want his brother to leave. Not without knowing his choice, but it was clearly written in Running Buck's face that he had not yet made his decision. And now, Red Bear could see that the sky was beginning to lighten in the East. Morning was coming.

As the sun began to peek over the horizon, a voice became clear. A voice singing in the lodge just behind him. The Man of Dreams.

Red Bear stepped forward and clutched his brother to his chest again. "Choose life," he whispered. "Live, and we will find each other again somehow, in the world we know."

"I love you," Running Buck whispered back.

And then Red Bear opened his eyes to see the Man of Dreams bathed in steam and seated before him.

* * *

TBC


	11. Chapter Eleven

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Eleven**

It had not been a pleasant night. Teaspoon had dreamed of the shed, of Buck being chained to the wall like in old stories of castles and dungeons. Some shadowy man with no face tortured him, beating him until his limbs were broken, burning him with a =glowing red iron. Buck screamed over and over, and Teaspoon found himself standing at the other side of the room. Standing, and doing nothing to stop the shadowy man, nothing to help Buck. Buck cried and pleaded with him, but he couldn't move forward, couldn't even shout at the man to stop.

And finally the screaming stopped. Buck hung limply from the chains. Teaspoon hoped he was unconscious, lost to the pain the man had inflicted. The shadowy man grabbed a fistful of hair and lifted Buck's head. Buck's eyes were open and glassy. Blood spilled from his mouth onto his chest. His chest did not rise or fall. Buck was dead. The man laughed and turned his face so the Teaspoon could see who it was that had done this to Buck. And then Teaspoon screamed. The face was his own.

Teaspoon jerked awake and sat up quickly, surprising Jenny. She turned toward him, but a remnant of his nightmare had stayed with him and he feared that Buck had died. Ignoring the pain in his eyes from the bright morning light pouring in through the windows, Teaspoon stood and reached for Buck's chest. With his hand there to feel it, he could see the slight lift of the blankets as Buck inhaled. Satisfied and much relieved, he sat down where he was, right beside Jenny on the floor.

She touched his arm. "He's quiet," she said. "He hasn't changed. I would have woke you."

Teaspoon leaned against the other bed and let out a shaky breath. "I know," he said. "I just dreamed. . . ." He didn't want to tell her what he'd dreamed. He didn't want to remember. Even now the details were fading, vanishing as most dreams do. Only that face remained clear, and the sound of Buck's screams.

Satisfied that Buck had survived the night, Teaspoon looked closely at him. He still looked terrible. He was bruised and swollen, but at least he was clean and bandaged. His breaths were short and shallow, but they were steady.

"He never moved," Jenny said beside him. "His eyes didn't move like he was dreaming. His fingers never twitched. He never moved at all, not even when I changed the bandage on his arm."

"Ike was like that once," Teaspoon told her, holding onto the hope that Buck would wake as Ike had. "He was shot and fell and hit his head on a rock. He didn't wake up for a few days."

Teaspoon heard rustling in the other room, and soon the Kid stepped out, with his boots in his hand. "What time is it?" he asked.

"About nine, I think," Jenny answered. Then she turned back to Teaspoon. "I didn't want to wake you." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Though maybe I should have, considering your dream." Loud enough for the Kid and Jimmy who'd joined them, she said, "I put some coffee on. Would you like some, Teaspoon?"

She stood and walked to the stove before Teaspoon could answer. "Very kind of you," he said in response. He used the bed behind him to lift himself off the floor. Kid and Jimmy took a cup each and then just stood, watching Teaspoon. And he knew what they were waiting for. "You boys get the buckboard ready. Bring it up close to the house." He leaned over and softly touched Buck's face. "It's time to go home, son."

* * *

Buck and Ike stood at the edge of the school's land. It had not been easy for either of them there. "Why here, Ike?" Buck asked. While this school had been his introduction to the White world, it had not been an easy time.

"I don't decide," Ike said. "I just know where we're going."

Buck sighed. Ike also knew when it was time to leave, and Buck wondered about that. Was it because his body back in the physical world was dying, his life running out like sand in an hour glass? He found himself a little worried about that where before he almost felt relief. Why should it matter? If he died, he could be with Ike. He could see his mother. He wouldn't be hated anymore. He wouldn't have to scrape for the least bit of anyone's respect. He wouldn't hurt anymore. But his brother's words had reached him. He never could discount anything Red Bear said, even when they disagreed, such respect he had for his brother. Red Bear had said there were still joys to live for. He said that while faced with the slow annihilation of his people. How could he still see the joys when so much sorrow was awaiting him? Buck just couldn't see it.

And staring at the school in front of him wasn't helping. He'd had hope when he left the Kiowa. He was also fearful and sad about leaving his brother, but he had hoped that it could be better with the Whites. This school was supposed to be his doorway. He was supposed to learn here. To read, to write, to speak the white man's words. He had learned those things. But he'd also learned he wasn't white, no matter what the older Kiowa children had said. His skin was too dark, his way of life so very different. And white children were just as cruel as Kiowa children were. Here, he had no brother to protect him. Here he had felt truly alone, truly vulnerable, truly afraid for his life.

"I suppose we have to go in," he said, his voice completely lacking in enthusiasm at the prospect. "I wonder if Mother Augustine is still in charge."

Ike chuckled, oblivious to Buck's dour remembrances or ignoring them altogether. "She must be. Just look at the garden."

Buck did and saw the perfectly parallel rows of browning stalks. It was late enough in the year that the vegetables had already been harvested, but their stalks remained a testimony to Mother Augustine's legendary rigidity. Buck sighed again and stepped through the gate into the dusty schoolyard.

As soon as the little gate swung closed behind him, he knew he was alone. He could not see Ike on either side of him. "Ike?" he called.

He turned back quickly, not caring what he'd see so long as he saw his friend. But he did not. He saw a pouring rain under a blackened sky. He heard thunder and felt the earth shudder when the lightning struck. He saw a boy, tall, but much too thin, wearing buckskins a little too big and hugging his arms around himself as he slogged through the tall grass and mud. Lightning flashed again and he saw the boy's face as he saw the barn. He knew what the boy was thinking, because he knew that he was the boy.

He thought for a moment that maybe he should try and warn the boy away. But he felt no rain on his own shoulders, no chill from the wind. They were in two different worlds, looking at each other through a veil of years and experiences. Buck could see the boy, but the boy did not see him. Buck watched his younger self enter the school yard and pull open the barn door. He faced away from the fence then and the darkness faded. The rain stopped and the clouds cleared. It was morning again, and still Ike was not there.

He turned, and looking up at the three-story school, he felt little different than the boy he had just seen enter the barn. Alone and lost in a world he didn't understand. And afraid. The boy would be afraid for his life, but Buck, now, was afraid of his memories. Entering the school was sure to dredge up old hurts, just as standing in the yard was already doing. But Ike was gone, and Buck guessed he'd stay gone until it was time to leave the school.

Not for the first time, he thought it would have been easier if he had simply died. Did everyone get the kind of choice he was facing? Had Ike chosen to die, leaving Emily and Buck and all the riders? Had his mother chosen death over staying with her sons? Had Noah chosen to give up on life just when it seemed the country would tear itself apart over the question of his people's place in it? It didn't seem right. Ike loved Emily, and he had apologized to Buck for leaving him. His mother wouldn't have left him alone so young. Noah had wanted to see his people free. Why would they give up then?

Is that was he was really choosing? To give up or to keep going? Dying had seemed easy when it was only ending his suffering. But it was also giving up and his pride wrestled with that. He hadn't given up at this school, no matter how many times the older boys beat him, no matter how many times his teachers snapped the ruler on his knuckles, or embarrassed him at the front of the class. He could have slipped out at night and run back to the plains and the Kiowa any night in the three years he had stayed. But he hadn't.

Now the spirits had brought him back to the school. It was late morning, judging from the position of the sun. The students would be in their classes, which was good since Buck didn't want to disturb them. He wasn't even sure, at this point, if he _could_ disturb them. Red Bear had seen him at the village but the dog soldiers had not. It was probably better not to risk it.

Taking a deep breath, he climbed the few steps to the porch and reached the door. He wasn't sure how to enter. Would the handle work? If he opened the door, would anyone see it--even if they didn't see him? Before he had time to decide, the door opened itself. Or rather a nun opened it. She stood in the doorway, peering out from her black habit as if looking for someone. Mother Augustine. Her face was a bit more lined than he remembered, but otherwise she had not changed at all. She stood ramrod straight and had a stern, serious expression on her face. He tried to remember if he'd ever seen her smile. She shook her head and stepped back to close the door. She hadn't seen him, and for that Buck was grateful. He hurried through the door before it closed and watched as the school's Reverend Mother went back upstairs to her class.

The children and most of the nuns would be upstairs on the second floor, so Buck decided to wander around the first floor until the spirits decided he'd been there long enough. He wasn't sure why he had come so he wasn't sure what he was supposed to find. He went first to the office, the first room he'd ever seen at the school. After being found in the barn, he'd been brought by two nuns into the office to face Mother Augustine, though, of course, back then he hadn't known her name or even that they were nuns.

The office had changed little over the years, except maybe to look a bit more worn. Sparsely furnished, it held only a desk, a chair, and a crucifix. The desk was large and its top empty with the exception of a Bible. The straight-backed chair's upholstery was fraying on the arms and its wine-colored fabric had been dulled by age and sunlight. The silver crucifix did not look aged at all, but then, he knew from his time here that it was regularly polished. It wasn't until after he'd learned to read that he understood the significance of the sculpted man pinned to crossed beams. The nuns revered it for the sacrifice made by Jesus. But to Buck, it had little religious meaning. It had, however, given him his name. Because Reverend Mother Mary Augustine could not have a student named Running Buck, she'd searched for a "Christian" name for him, finally deciding on Cross when she had touched the crucifix she wore around her neck.

He had been terrified that day. The nuns who had brought him in had taken his knife from him and Mother Augustine took his medicine pouch and earring. He had understood enough to know that he had traded them for school. He'd left the Kiowa to seek out a school like Little Bird had described and hearing that word spoken by these nuns, he'd wanted to learn. He could only understand a few English words and the nuns made no attempt to help him understand. So when they took his things and cut his hair, he thought it was a high price to pay, perhaps too high, but he'd gone too far to turn back. Of course, he got everything back after graduating, but he didn't have any way of knowing that when he arrived and he wasn't about to quit.

Bolstered by that resolve, he had endured the strict discipline and foreign culture and tried to learn. But the white world had obstacles he hadn't prepared for. The Kiowa had seen him as white, but at the school it was very obvious that he was not. He was a savage and a heathen. An Indian. And here he had no brother to protect him.

Buck turned to leave the office and found the rules were no different in the school than out on the plains. Directly before him were the two nuns and the frightened youth he had once been. Hungry and covered in grit and dirt from the storm the night before, the younger Buck looked about the room with wide eyes while the women in black discussed his intentions. Buck hadn't understood their words then, but they were perfectly clear to him now.

"He was carrying this, Reverend Mother," the one on the right, Sister Beatrice said. She held his knife between two fingers as if it might jump and slit her throat. "I shudder to think what he is capable of."

Mother Augustine stepped through Buck to walk around his younger self. Then she took the knife and held it close before setting it on the desk. "It is very possible that the knife is used for hunting," she said and then dismissed the nun on the left, Sister Margaret.

Sister Beatrice went on to tell how Michael Shaughnessy had found him in the barn, supposing that he had broken in. Mother Augustine remained calm in the face of Sister Beatrice's near panic, and explained that he could not have broken in since the barn was left unlocked. And when the younger nun asked why he wasn't in his own place with his own people, Mother Augustine surprised him further.

"I doubt that he has a place," she said. "Otherwise, he would not have been in our barn. He is not full-blooded. Look at the color of his hair: brown not black. I have heard that some tribes do not take well to mixed blood. He has probably been expelled or abandoned by his own people. Judging by the looks of him, he is fortunate to have found us."

To a stranger she might simply have sounded logical, and to the younger Buck, it was just indecipherable chatter. But to the older Buck watching, the whole conversation was a wonder! This short, stern woman had been the bane of his existence at Sorrow's. She had punished him when the other boys picked fights. She had slapped him with a ruler when he used the "wrong" hand, even though it was much harder for him to write or eat with his right. She had stood him in front of a class of much younger children and embarrassed him when he couldn't pronounce the words in his reader correctly. Even when he grew taller than her, she still intimidated him. Never once had she given him a kind word of encouragement. He had hated her.

But here she was, in this scene from his past, and she did not think him a savage out to scalp them all in the night. When Sister Beatrice succumbed to all the usual lies and suspicions white men had about Indians, Mother Augustine confronted her with reason and fairness. It was a side of the woman he had never seen before, and he wondered how different those three years might have been if he had understood her words that first day.

* * *

Jenny grabbed the ball of yarn again before she went outside. They had decided to move the whole bed to the porch so they wouldn't have to jar Buck around anymore than necessary. The buckboard was as close to the porch as the Kid and Jimmy could get it. In the back, they had placed the mattress from the second bed, several extra blankets and a heavy quilt. One horse was hitched to it and three others were tethered to the post nearby. Teaspoon had come out to inspect it but then walked off to the shed where Buck had been kept. Jenny looked to Kid, but he shrugged back. When Teaspoon returned, he was carrying a hammer and a nail. He climbed into the back of the buckboard and began to hammer the nail into the back of the seat.

"You won't need the string," he told her when he finished. "You can hang it here. You'll ride back here with him. I'll be up front. Kid and Jimmy, I need one of you to ride ahead of us and have Rachel and Lou prepare a place in the house and bring the doctor over."

"I'll go," Kid said. "I'm sure Lou is clawing at the walls to get back out here. This'll save her the trouble."

Teaspoon nodded and got down from the buckboard. "Okay, let's get him out here."

They all filed back into the house and found Buck lying as still and peaceful as he had the entire night. Jenny just hoped he wouldn't wake when they moved him. As much as she wanted to see his eyes and hear his voice, she wanted more for him to rest without pain. While they could not take his pain away, this death-like sleep he was in kept him beyond it.

All she really knew of him was the week they'd spent together before her mother died, and the stories Ike had told. Looking back into her memories, she saw him with new eyes. He was there, leading the Army into her village while the warriors were away. At the time, she had only noticed his actions in regards to her. He led the soldiers. He tried to stop her from running away. But now, the memories ran slower, clearer, in her mind. He did lead the soldiers, but his eyes were troubled, unhappy, but she knew the soldiers hadn't forced him to come. Reluctant. That was what his eyes told her. And then when the shooting started, he jumped down from his horse and raised his hands to the soldiers. He tried to stop them. He saw Two Ponies standing in the open, about to get trampled, and pulled him to safety. He did try to stop her from running away, but she slapped him and he fell. She got to her horse only to be shot in the shoulder and dropped to the ground. And after the soldiers had rounded them up, he had tried to help her by tending her wound.

She hadn't seen it then, but he had tried to help her even when he stopped her running away. If she had stayed, she would not have been shot. Either way, the soldiers would have taken her. He couldn't change that and neither could she. He had done his best, but he was just one man. The soldiers didn't listen to him, and she could see now the sadness that was in his eyes when it was all over.

She ignored him back in Sweetwater because she was still angry. She took her first opportunity to run away, but he caught her. They argued. She hated him, and all the while he treated her with kindness and patience. She yelled at him, insulted him, and he held her when she cried.

She had been worried when she rode out here with Ike. Would he love her? They'd only just begun to get along when he fought Black Wolf for her. Fought to the death. He had offered his life for her chance at freedom. Wasn't that love? Would she love him? Looking down at his bruised, swollen face, she knew now that she already did.

"Lift it easy," Teaspoon said, breaking into her thoughts.

She and Kid had taken the foot of the bed, leaving Jimmy and Teaspoon to the heavier end. Between the four of them, the bed wasn't too hard to lift. Buck's weight made it awkward, but they didn't have far to go. When they reached the door, Teaspoon stepped back, so that Jimmy could get through the door with the bed. It was just wide enough, but not for both men. Jenny did the same with Kid, taking up the bed again only after they were out on the porch.

They set the bed down near to the edge of the porch and Jenny took a folded blanket from the foot of the bed. Teaspoon helped her, lifting Buck little by little until she had the fresh blanket underneath him. This time only the men lifted Buck, by the blanket. Jenny untied the dreamcatcher and jumped into the back of the buckboard to hang it on the nail Teaspoon had put there. Then she returned to the edge and helped to pull the blanket when the men reached her. Jimmy climbed up with her and together they pulled Buck onto the mattress. Once he was settled, Jenny covered him with the blankets and tucked a pillow beneath his head. Through it all, Buck never so much as twitched.

* * *

The school was full of memories. No matter where he went, he had to turn at some point, either to leave a room or to go into another one. Every time he turned, he faced the past. The other boys tormenting him in the cafeteria or tripping him on the stairs. Getting beaten up and then punished for it, whether he fought back or not. Standing in front of the class of little children, trying to remember all the rules for pronouncing English spellings. While he had found encouragement in the office, he found it no where else in the school. What he did find though, was a bit of his spirit. Young Buck got so angry at Mother Augustine's constant insistence on humiliating him that he was sure she wanted him to fail. He vowed to himself to learn to speak the language to show her that he could, to beat her in that battle of minds.

There was only one room left so he went there, walking through another memory. It was rather mundane. Some boys knocked his books out of his younger self's arms and taunted him with names. He had seen enough of that. Sparing the boy who was him a sympathetic glance, he walked straight through the boys and into the infirmary.

It wasn't much of an infirmary. The doctor's office in Rock Creek was much larger, and more clinical-looking. But this room did give the sick or injured a bit of privacy not afforded to the students in the dormitories upstairs. Two small beds served the sick, while a chair and table give Sister Francis a place to sleep while she watched over them. That was the memory now coming to him and it was so familiar, so real, that it backed him up against the wall. Two boys occupied the beds. One dark-skinned with short hair and the other light-skinned with none. It wasn't until just then that he realized none of the other memories had included Ike. Ike was there all along, scaring the other children and even watching when Buck was beaten. But this was different. He felt himself melting into the memory in front of him, becoming the younger boy that he once was and reliving this moment, one of the most precious times of his life.

Ike had come to Buck's aid after older boys in town had picked a fight. Both had ended up beaten badly and were brought to the infirmary to rest and convalesce. Sister Francis fell asleep at the table and Buck stole curious glances at the silent boy beside him. He had seemed threatening before, maybe even crazy. Owl-boy, Buck had named him in his own mind because his wide eyes and bare head reminded him of that animal. He didn't look like that now, though. Buck knew that the other boy had tried to help him, and he owed him something. But he was very curious as to why, when he had only watched before, he had decided to act in town. So Buck, in his broken English, asked the quiet boy why he had fought. In the other's silence, Buck had finally learned that the boy was silent because he couldn't speak. Both sat up and met, really met, for the first time. When Buck asked the boy's name, Ike wrote it on a piece of paper. And then Buck offered Ike something very special. It was small to him, something every Kiowa learned. But for Ike, the Plains language of hand signs was the only form of communication he had beyond writing. Ike wrote a very special word on a piece of paper and handed it over to Buck. Buck read it, and mispronounced it but got it right at Ike's prompting.

"Friend," he said, and Ike's eyes lit up. Buck realized that Ike had offered him something of great value in return, something he'd longed for in this lonely place surrounded by so many children. Buck raised his out-turned fist to his neck, with his first two fingers extended and then raised his hand upward toward his face. Ike followed the movement with his eyes and made the sign himself.

"Friend," Buck repeated.

Once again, Buck found himself at the wall, watching as the two boys learned from each other. Ike would write a word and encourage Buck to pronounce it, and Buck would show him the sign. The scene faded like a mist, leaving two empty beds, covered in colorful, but faded, quilts. The chair where Sister Francis had slept was empty. Buck turned and walked out the door only to be met with more memories, but this time, Ike was in every one of them.

The school day ended, and children--of both the present and the past--ran outside to play. Buck went with them and found Ike again by the fence. And a younger Ike high in the cottonwood tree with his younger self. He heard himself as he passed the tree. He was laughing and the older Buck could see Ike smiling, too. Ike was only one friend, one friend out of all the children in the school, but he was more than enough to make the school bearable, even pleasant at times.

He reached the fence and Ike smiled. "It's time to go home."

* * *

(TBC)

A/N: Kim Roberts graciously gave me permission to use her "Sorrow's Children" as the back-story for the events in my story taking place at the mission school. Canonically, Buck did tell Emily that he and Ike met at a mission school and that they became friends after Ike jumped into a fight to help Buck. Everything else, events at the school and descriptions of the grounds, are based on the past events from Kim's story. I've paraphrased her scenes here, not wanting to plagiarize and not even hoping to write them as beautifully as she did. If what little I put in here intrigues you (and even if it doesn't!) go read her story. It's an excellent piece though you won't find it here. You can find it at the following: hem dot passagen dot se slash nesciri slash sc underscore pro dot htm. (ff dot net eats URL's so I had to write that one funny. The punctuation is written and spaced out. Remove the spaces and replace the words "dot" and "slash" with . and / and "underscore" with _.)


	12. Chapter Twelve

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Twelve**

The way back to Rock Creek was slow. Though Lathrop's buckboard had driven ruts into the earth during his many trips to town, the way was not smooth and Teaspoon didn't want to jar Buck anymore than necessary. Jenny watched him carefully, stilling him when a bump moved him too much. The sun was bright overhead and, despite the coming of winter, was still quite warm. Fearing that his face would burn, Jenny had moved to sit above his head. She pulled the top blanket over his face and onto her raised knees making a canopy of shade. She had to push her skirt down in the center to see under it, and it nearly made her laugh to think what Aunt Sarah might have said of her posture.

The Kid had ridden ahead and Jimmy rode to the side of the buckboard. Jenny watched him now and then, but he never looked her way. His fingers were knotted tightly in the reins of his horse and his jaw was locked. She had thought the long ride home to Rock Creek might have relaxed him. There was nothing to do but watch the world slowly pass under wheel and hoof and it would take a good many hours still to reach the town. But Jimmy, she could tell, was still seething with anger. Jenny thought it might help if they talked, but right now she didn't know what she might say.

Jimmy must have realized she was watching him. He was the first to speak. "Where have you been since Sweetwater?" he asked, and though it was blunt, she heard no accusation in it.

"Back east," she answered. "My Aunt Sarah's."

"Was it a big city?" He didn't look back at her. He hardly moved except to speak.

Jenny nodded, looking out at the trees and tall, browning grass. "Bigger than anything I'd seen in my life. Too big. I felt very small there. And alone."

"That why you left?"

"Jimmy," Teaspoon warned.

But Jenny wasn't angry with him for asking and she answered anyway, "That was part of it. It was worse than just being big. It was also white."

That got him to turn.

Jenny took a breath and waved one hand over the blanket covering Buck. "This is the kind of white that I saw. It wasn't acted on but I could feel it, hear it, see it in the face and voice of nearly everyone I met."

She sighed and checked under the blanket again, but Buck hadn't moved beyond the rolling of the buckboard. Rachel and Lou had accepted her coming. Teaspoon had understood it. But Jimmy would be another test, a harder one. Someday, she would have to explain this to her father after all. "I'm not white anymore," she said. "And I can't be with the Indians. The best place I can hope for is someplace in the middle, someplace Buck has been since he left the Kiowa. In between can be a hard place to live, especially when you're alone. So I thought maybe Buck and I wouldn't have to be alone. We could be in the middle together if that's what he wanted."

And Jimmy surprised her by not saying anything. He turned back to the way in front of them. But when she looked again, his knuckles were no longer white and his jaw had softened.

"Did I ever tell you boys," Teaspoon suddenly asked from the front seat, "about my second wife?"

"Wasn't she the Indian one?" Jimmy asked with a slight grin.

"One?" Teaspoon said. "Two of 'em was Indians, Jimmy." And then he went on to tell a beautiful story about how they had met and married, and the ground seemed to pass quicker beneath the wheels of the buckboard.

* * *

It was a long walk over empty plains. Buck and Ike talked a bit, remembering the adventures of their youth. Buck had chanced a look back only twice, each time seeing a moment in time that had not been adventurous, a reminder of the cruelty he and Ike had both faced in the world. But when he'd turn back, Ike would still be there, and he realized that that had made all the difference. The world had been cruel, but they suffered together. When Ike was laughed at and Buck was thrown out of businesses, they each felt the sting a little less because each found acceptance in the other.

"I didn't know why you were smoking the wood for so long," Ike said.

"You wouldn't make a very good Indian," Buck told him, smiling at the memory. "Making a bow takes patience."

"Apparently," Ike said. "And I had a scar to prove it. The darn thing snapped in half."

Buck chuckled at that, remembering all the cursing Ike did with his one free hand that day. "You're lucky you didn't lose an eye. I didn't teach you those words, you know. Where'd you get them?"

"I made them up," Ike smirked. "How'd you understand 'em?"

Buck laughed harder. "You were very descriptive."

Ike laughed, too, but lighter. "I never would touch your bow after that."

"I wouldn't let you!" Buck replied, clapping Ike on the shoulder. "I had to start over and smoke another piece of wood."

"You were a tough teacher," Ike countered, but he was still smiling. "You could have waited until it finished smoking before you let me try it."

"Sometimes a student needs to learn the hard way." Buck began to see shapes in the distance, and the conversation dropped. They walked in silence for another half hour before Buck could tell the shapes were houses and buildings. He didn't recognize them and began to wonder why Ike was leading him there.

"We can't stay long," Ike told him. "Just walk through it. Emma's there, with Sam. You'll know where to find her. I'll meet you on the other side."

Buck didn't flinch this time when Ike suddenly wasn't there beside him. He thought instead of Emma and Sam and picked up his pace to the town. He slowed down when he hit the sidewalks, but no one seemed to notice his presence. His heart sank a bit. Would Emma? Mother Augustine and the other nuns hadn't seen him. Only Red Bear had, and it was becoming apparent that the sweat lodge had been the reason for that. Buck was in the spirit world, and Red Bear had used the lodge to meet him there. Emma wouldn't have a sweat lodge.

Ike had told him he'd know where to find her, but he hadn't really paid attention to that. He stopped and looked at the unfamiliar buildings and businesses and realized he didn't at all know where she was. There were taller buildings there, like he'd seen only a few times in his life. He saw a hotel, a saloon, the livery, the Marshall's office. Sam might be at the Marshall's office but that didn't mean that Emma would be there, and though Sam had always treated him fairly, it was Emma he wanted to see. Ike had said there wasn't a lot of time here. How was he supposed to find her? He didn't even know what day it was for her. Or for him.

"I'll just be a minute, Sam."

Buck spun around, wary of what he might see. But nothing changed, and he realized that nothing had as he stood there searching the town with his eyes. He made a full circle and nothing changed at all.

And then Sam walked out of a building right in front of him. Instinctively, Buck stepped back out of the way. Then he realized where he was. A church.

Churches had never been Buck's favorite buildings. They reminded him a bit too much of Sorrow's, and he always expected someone to try and call him a heathen any time he entered, even for town meetings. But Emma had gone to church often, and she had never called him that, even if she had forced all the riders to attend services every Sunday in Sweetwater.

He had managed the services easy enough, after all, he'd been forced to attend mass at Sorrow's, and the Protestant services in Sweetwater were easier to take than that. He only had to stand up and sit down at the right times. He didn't have to cross himself or repeat the Hail Mary every time he was in trouble.

One door in the front of the building stood halfway open, so Buck stepped quietly inside. Emma was sitting in one of the pews, looking up at the pulpit and the cross there. Buck's boots clomped loudly on the wooden floor, but she did not seem to notice. He sat down in front of her and turned to see her face.

"I'm not sure why I needed to stay," she said. For a moment it almost felt like she was talking to him, except that he knew she couldn't even see him. "I just feel something terrible has happened," she went on. "I felt this way when Ike . . . . We got a letter after it happened. I don't want another letter like that. Lord, if one of those boys is in trouble, I pray that you will protect him."

Buck's eyes widened. She wasn't seeing him or talking to him. She was praying. That, in itself, wasn't unusual. But she was praying about him. Somehow she knew, and though Buck wasn't sure how many days it had been, he knew it was too soon for her to have received a letter from Teaspoon or Lou. Unless Buck had died already. He didn't think that was the case though. Ike would have told him.

Emma continued her prayer. "Lou is married now and settled down with Kid. She'd be safe enough, I reckon. Kid's a good one, but he sometimes blinds himself to the dangers of the world. But Jimmy and Cody? They can find trouble in, well, in a church, if given the time."

Buck smiled at the ease with which she prayed. The nuns at Sorrow's had been so formal sometimes. The man on the cross seemed a distant thing of worship. They loved Jesus; he knew that. How else could they devote their lives to that forgotten little school so out of the way? But they had never joked with their lord. With Emma, it was as if Jesus were a friend who sat with her, listening to what she said. She spoke to him the same way she'd speak to Teaspoon.

"And Buck. . . ." She choked then and her eyes filled with tears. She ducked her head to her folded hands, and Buck felt a stab of pain. Had he disappointed her by not truly becoming a Christian? Did she think of him as more trouble than Cody?

"I worry everyday now that the Pony Express is ending and Ike is gone. What will become of him?" She stopped then and was silent. Her shoulders shook and Buck felt a lump in his own throat. He was relieved, and amazed to know she cared enough to worry over him. He tried to touch her hands, but his fingers met only the back of the pew.

She lifted her head, but she didn't look toward the pulpit. She looked right at him. Buck knew that was impossible but her eyes met his, and she cried, "Oh Buck, is it you?"

He nearly fell out of the pew. "Emma?" he asked, not understanding.

"What happened? It's not right the way some people only see the color of your skin," she said, "else they look right through you. Something has happened, hasn't it?"

Buck nodded, still wondering if she actually was actually seeing him. He didn't move his hand from where it met hers on the back of the pew.

"I wish I'd told you," she confessed. "I've talked about it with Sam, but I never told you. I wasn't sure if you'd think I was motherin' you too much. I wanted to tell you you always had a home with us. You and Ike, when I first thought of it. I couldn't imagine you two separate." She choked back a small sob.

Then someone else started crying, startling them both. Emma pulled back her hands and leaned over in the seat. "Oh, Hannah," she said and lifted a baby into her arms. "Shh, baby, don't cry. Everything's fine. Mama's right here."

She bounced the baby up and down against her shoulder and the baby quieted. Emma looked back to the pulpit and the cross there. "Sam's waiting," she said as she stood. Buck stood with her, still watching her, unsure what had just happened. "Keep him safe, Lord," Emma prayed, "or help him if he's not. And let him know that he's loved. Amen."

And with that she turned and left Buck standing in the church.

* * *

Lou had planned on leaving first thing in the morning, but with Jimmy and Kid gone, and Buck injured, the station was short-handed. Michael Lessner, another rider, had arrived the afternoon before but was set to head out on a run before noon. He offered to help Lou and Rachel with the chores. Michael was now getting his horse ready and the two women were spreading hay. Rachel had not said much the entire time, at least nothing that wasn't about the work. There was no mention of Buck or Lathrop. Lou understood it, to a point. The work, the busy-ness, made it easier to set the worry aside. But for Lou, it didn't go far. It stayed with her, just behind her eyes, and she was anxious to finish the chores so she could be on her way.

They all looked up when they heard the familiar sound of fast hoof beats. As the sound grew closer, Lou expected to hear a second set thundering out and away from the yard as Michael left for his run. But there was no second set and the hoof beats slowed until they stopped. Lou and Rachel both set their pitchforks aside and stepped out of the barn.

Lou squinted against the bright sunlight, but she knew who it was by the shape of his silhouette. She ran forward and took Katy's reigns. She looked up at Kid as she stroked the horse's nose.

"He's coming home," Kid said, knowing what she was waiting for. He lifted his leg over the horse and slid to the ground. "Teaspoon sent me back to get a place ready for him, and to get the doctor."

"He's better then?" Rachel asked behind them. "He's going to be alright?"

Kid didn't nod or shake his head. He just took a deep breath and held it a moment before he replied. "He's quiet. He's asleep. Jenny Tompkins put him to sleep with some Indian thing and some prayers. I don't understand it, but he's peaceful now. Enough that we can bring him home."

Lou didn't know what to think. Some Indian thing? But Buck was asleep and finally peaceful, and for that, she was glad. Still, the worry remained. Were they bringing him home to die?

"How soon?" Rachel asked as she brushed her hands off on her apron. "We'll set up a bed in the house. Kid, get the doctor." She put her hand on Lou's shoulder. "Louise, we have a lot to do."

Just then, another rider raced toward them. This time, it was an Express run. Lou remembered Michael and found him standing only a few feet. "I'll be sayin' a prayer for him," he said before he turned and mounted his horse. The other rider, Jake Matheson, tossed the mochila to Michael and jumped down from his saddle as Michael raced off.

"Prayin' for who?" Jake asked.

Rachel tucked her hand into Lou's elbow and started them both for the house. She called to Jake, "Get yourself cleaned up and you can help."

* * *

TBC


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Thirteen**

Lou finished folding the blanket at the foot of the bed and dropped down onto it. It wasn't that making up the bed had been hard work. It struck her that this was exactly what she'd done only two days ago, though in a more hasty fashion. Then she had been in a hurry to help get Buck out of the shed and into the house where he could be tended and his life perhaps saved. This time, she and Rachel had hours to prepare.

She and Jake had moved the bed, and Jake had practically pummeled her with questions until she was exhausted by the cruelty she recounted to him. Thereafter, Jake had offered to take care of the horses and help with other chores so that those who knew Buck best would be free to stay with him. Lou could sense how uneasy he was. Rachel had gathered the blankets and pillows and left them to Lou so that she could prepare bandages and move Buck's other things from the bunkhouse. Lou made up the bed, leaving a folded blanket at the foot to be easily brought up over Buck if he should get cold.

Lou was alone then, for a little while, with no one to distract her from the memories of those two days. The shed was still vivid in her mind's eye, and Buck's suffering so clear. Kid had said he was asleep now. He hadn't so much as closed his eyes in her presence. They had moved his body, but his mind stayed locked in the shed, tormented by the man Lou had killed. Buck might die and never know that he'd been found and rescued by his friends. He might die and never know that Jenny had come, never have the chance he had hoped for. Was his present sleep a sign of improvement or evidence that he was now closer to death?

She wasn't alone long. Rachel returned, setting a basket of supplies on the floor by the bed. She, too, sat on the bed, and took Lou's hand in hers. "He's asleep," she whispered. "At least he's peaceful. That's something."

Lou nodded. It was something. But was it good?

The front door opened, and Kid poked his head in. "The doctor's here," he said. "And I hear a buckboard."

Rachel squeezed Lou's hand and then stood, pulling Lou up with her. They stepped onto the porch together, joining Kid and the doctor to watch Teaspoon drive the buckboard in, with Jimmy riding along side.

* * *

This town was familiar. And Buck was surprised by how relieved he felt to be there. This town had not always been friendly to him. More often than not, in fact, he'd barely been tolerated by it. But despite that, this town felt like home. He knew the streets, the shops, the livery, the saloon, even the church. Rock Creek was where Teaspoon and his friends--his family--were, and that made it home.

The station was on the other side of town and Buck had half a mind to run there, but he was afraid of what he'd find. "They brought you home," Ike told him. "You need to choose."

Buck was dying and his body was back at the station. The choice was before him and he had not found his answer. Life, it turned out, was a lot like the town of Rock Creek. It was filled with hostility and pain, but it also held memories of joy and loved ones. If there was only the one, only the hatred, he could say goodbye to it all so easily. This world wasn't made for him. Not the White world and not the Indian. He was both and he was neither, and he just didn't fit. But in the Indian world he'd had his mother and his brother and in the White world he'd had Ike and Teaspoon and the riders. And they'd made a place for him. And yet, how could those few people counteract the multitudes who saw no worth in him?

Before he realized it, Ike was gone again and Buck found himself standing in front of Tompkins' store. Ike came and went and Buck had yet to understand the reasoning. Or maybe he did understand. He had to choose for himself. If Ike were to choose for him, the answer would be simple. Ike would choose life. But Buck was the one to live with the consequences if he chose life. Ike was beyond that choice. Buck had to decide on his own.

A woman's voice floated out from the store. "Tortured him?"

"That's what the doctor said," Tompkins answered.

"Why would Mr. Lathrop do a thing like that?"

"Indians killed his family," someone else replied, and Buck knew they were talking about him and the man who had shot him and held him in the shed. Curious, he stepped inside.

The three of them, Tompkins and his customers, were standing close together near the counter. "But why Buck?" the woman asked. "He didn't have anything to do with that. He keeps to himself and his business mostly."

Tompkins' face flushed red and he turned to the side. "He's Indian," he said. "And I suspect that's all Lathrop could see."

"But torture?" the other man asked, oblivious to Tompkin's discomfort. "I ain't so fond of Indians neither, but that's just ungodly."

Now Tompkins stepped away and put the counter between them. "I ain't saying it was right. But I understand it. When they killed--when I thought they killed--my family, I hated them. I hated him. I could have lived without ever seeing another one. Grief like that, that goes to hate, it's hard to turn off. It makes you blind. I lost my daughter because of it. I lost my wife."

Buck had only glimpsed that side of Tompkins once before. The day that Eagle Feather's mother, Sally, had died. Since he'd joined the Express, Tompkins had been a nemesis. There had been a few others who treated him worse, but they had come and gone. Tompkins had always been there. When the riders had moved to Rock Creek, the idea of leaving Tompkins behind in Sweetwater was the bright spot in that otherwise unhappy change. Then Tompkins followed them and opened his store in Rock Creek. It was as if he was put on this earth as Buck's personal tormenter.

Or that's how he had seemed. Buck had tried to see the good in him. He had hoped that by bringing his family back to him, Tompkins' hate might be lessened and he'd let up. But Tompkins hadn't changed. For a brief moment when Sally died, Tompkins let go of his bitterness, only to regain it soon after Jenny left town. Not once had Buck seen any sympathy or kindness toward himself coming from Tompkins, not even when Sally died. That kindness was toward his dead wife and his daughter. But this? This was for him.

Buck turned to leave and ran into a crowd who spat at him and called him "traitor". Tompkins was there, as was the man in his store. Teaspoon's army friend stood to one side, and Buck recognized this for what it was. He turned quickly and the shouts faded into the wind.

A few people passed him on the sidewalk, muttering quietly to themselves with a sense of shock. He caught just enough words to know that their conversations were similar to the one in Tompkins store. Only now, he found no comfort in their concern for him. "Fair weather friends" was a white man's saying. It took something so horrible to earn their sympathy, but let one Indian from a tribe a hundred miles away kill a white man trying to rape his wife, and Buck would feel the brunt of these same people's righteous indignation. He'd gotten a few pats on the back and sympathetic looks when Ike had died, just the same. It didn't last. The weather was foul more often than it was fair.

"Did you think that would change my mind?" he asked whoever could hear him. Ike or the spirits or anyone. "Wait until Tompkins learns that his daughter wanted to be with me. He'll change right back again. This doesn't mean anything!"

* * *

Buck lay in the bed in the front room of the station house. He was propped up on pillows so that his upper body reclined and his right knee was elevated just a bit. His left wrist, bandaged and splinted, rested carefully beside his hip, while his right hand lay across his equally bandaged chest. Uncovered to his waist, Buck's every breath was exposed, and yet they were hard to see. His chest barely moved. His face, though bruised and swollen, was peaceful, and far too pale.

"He'll not last long," the doctor said, pulling his hand back from Buck's neck where he'd felt for a pulse. "Not like this. He's asleep though, unconscious. He's not in any pain. He'll go peacefully at least."

Though the doctor had kept his voice soft and sorrowful, Teaspoon didn't want to hear those words. Buck would die. He'd known it was possible, even likely, from the moment he'd been found. He'd known it from his dream the night before. But still he'd hoped. Buck had a strong spirit, a fire within him. Teaspoon had held on to that, hoping it would be enough to carry Buck through this.

_Wake up!_ he thought to Buck. _Show him that he's wrong._ But Buck didn't move, except to take that next shallow breath and release it.

No one else spoke, and Teaspoon guessed they were all wrestling with similar thoughts. The doctor, though, was trying hard to act as if it weren't awkward in the middle of that silence.

Jimmy broke it by turning to storm out the door. Rachel called after him, but Teaspoon's hand on her arm was enough to tell her to let him go. Buck had fled once, too, just before Ike had died.

The door slammed behind Jimmy, and the rest of the scene fell apart. Lou sobbed into the Kid's chest. Rachel collapsed into a chair, and the doctor began to pack up his bag. Jenny sat right down on the floor and took Buck's hand.

Teaspoon had hardly left Buck's side, but he found it hard to stay now. He felt like Jimmy felt, sad and angry at the world that had allowed this to happen. He wanted to break something, hurt something, make something pay. But there was nothing here that he could punish. Only people, and none of them deserved it.

Taking a deep breath, he held his hand out toward the door. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, with a calmness he didn't feel. "I'll walk you to town. I need to check on Barnett."

* * *

Some things, at least, didn't change at all. The chair behind the desk in the Marshall's office was tilted precariously toward the wall. Its occupant's feet rested on the desktop and his snoring caused the brim of his hat to flutter slightly when he exhaled. Buck had come here expecting to find Teaspoon, though he wasn't sure why. If the others were bringing his dying body home, Teaspoon would most likely be back at the station.

"Barnett!"

That was all the chair needed. Fortunately for Barnett, the wall kept the chair from falling to the floor. But now, tilted at an even more impossible angle, Barnett had no chance of a dignified exit. Buck would have chuckled if it wasn't for the man glowering in the doorway.

There were few times Buck had ever seen Teaspoon so angry, and even fewer when that anger was released at one of his friends. Barnett was perhaps not the most skilled of deputies, but Buck knew that Teaspoon would count him a friend.

"I--" Barnett stammered as he tried to extricate himself from the chair, "--I suppose you found him."

"Have you been asleep the entire time I've been gone?" Teaspoon snapped.

Barnett, to his credit, wasn't phased by the outburst. "He's alright, ain't he?" he asked, taking off his hat and holding it to his chest.

Teaspoon didn't answer. He turned away and lifted his own hat with one hand while he ran his other back through his hair.

If Buck had doubted Ike's word before, Teaspoon's outburst would have convinced him. The one time Teaspoon had snapped at him undeservedly was after he got word that an old friend and fellow Alamo survivor had died.

"What happened?" Barnett asked as he gently righted the chair.

_I'm dying,_ Buck thought in response.

"He's dying," Teaspoon replied, still facing away. "He was shot. His horse was shot. He was trampled and beaten and tied up in a goddamned shed for two days!"

Buck closed his eyes, not wanting to see Teaspoon like this. But Teaspoon's venom must have been spent because his next words only sounded weary. Buck opened his eyes again.

"At least two days," Teaspoon breathed, letting his head fall forward. "He couldn't sleep the way he was tied. He didn't even know we'd found him. And now he's dying and I can't stop it."

"Who would do such a thing?" Barnett stepped closed, stopping just behind Teaspoon. "Why would anyone do that?"

Buck felt his anger building again. At the man who had harmed him, at all the people who had mistreated him, and at all the others who remained ignorant to it, pretending it didn't happen. "Why would anyone spit at me?" he asked in return, knowing that Barnett wouldn't hear. "Why would anyone curse me, beat me, mock me, humiliate me? Why do they hate me?"

"Because his skin ain't the right color," Teaspoon replied, turning. "That's all the reason anyone needs, ain't it?"

"Ya gotta think someday people'll learn to see beyond that," Barnett said. "This whole war is startin' 'cause of such things. Black people bein' slaves or not because they're black. Indians are bad because they're Indians and folks don't want to think of them as people trying to care for their own same as us. A whole lot of people die because of skin in this world. Someday, enough people are gonna die so as we can learn it ain't right."

Teaspoon turned to stare at Barnett, and Buck couldn't blame him. All his own anger had melted away in surprise at Barnett's words. Where had that insight come from?

Barnett put his hand on Teaspoon's shoulder. "I'm sorry if Buck has to be one of them. I'll leave you to yourself for a time."

Teaspoon just nodded and waited for Barnett to leave. Then he dropped himself into the vacated chair and placed his face in his hands.

Buck knelt beside the desk and tried touching Teaspoon's hands, hoping that some connection could be made, as it had with Emma. But his hands passed through the older man's and Teaspoon didn't look up. He tried his voice, hoping that somehow he would be heard. "Teaspoon."

Teaspoon's head lifted, but it wasn't the reaction Buck had wanted. Teaspoon stood up so abruptly that Buck fell backwards. Then Teaspoon slammed his hat onto the desk and kicked the chair away. But that burst spent his anger again and he leaned against the desk. "I didn't mean to grow attached," Teaspoon said, and Buck wondered if perhaps Teaspoon did know he was there. There was no one else to talk to in the office. Except God. Teaspoon might be praying, like Emma had been. "It was a job. I meant to teach them as best I could so maybe they'd survive the job. I didn't expect a family out of it. You took Ike and Noah. Jesse's brother took him. Kid and Lou have each other. They'll find a place for themselves before too long. Jimmy ain't long for stayin' neither, and Cody's done left. Buck was the only one I had left, and I know it wasn't right to want to keep him. But I hoped, I hoped just one would stay. We were family. Now You're gonna take him away, too."

Buck hadn't managed to pick himself up off the floor. He crossed his legs and let his head fall forward over his chest. "God didn't take Ike or Noah, Teaspoon," he said, hoping Teaspoon would hear. "And he didn't take me. He--the spirits. . . . Well, I have to choose. Ike brought me here and walked with me through all of my life and I still don't know which is the right way. There were good things, like you, Emma, my brother. But every time I turned around there were bad things. This latest, the one that's killing me, that's just the worst. It's been going on for as long as I can remember. How am I supposed to choose, Teaspoon?" He looked up and tried to touch Teaspoon again, but his hand only found the wood of the desk. "Please, hear me. How do I choose?"

"I never told him how proud I was." Teaspoon slowly walked over and picked up the chair. "Now he can't hear me."

"I can," Buck said, hungry to hear those words. Words of praise had been so rare in his life that the few he had ever gotten were cherished, as were the people who gave them: his mother, his brother, and Ike.

"You can tell me." Buck turned to find Barnett in the doorway again.

"You never did know him very well, did you?" Teaspoon asked, looking toward the door.

Barnett shook his head.

"He wasn't easy to know," Teaspoon said. "He hid himself, turned invisible when he needed to. Less chance of gettin' hurt that way, I suppose. But if you spend enough time with him, you learn him."

"Tell me," Barnett said, taking the chair from Teaspoon. He placed it beside the desk and waited for Teaspoon to speak.

Buck backed away as Barnett approached. Teaspoon nodded and put his hat back on. "He was probably the best tracker I ever met. His brother taught him, I reckon. He could hear better than any of the other boys, or rather, he could hear more. They might hear horses coming. He could tell how many. He could write when some of the other boys couldn't, and he spoke three or four languages. Some white folks have trouble with the one they were born to, but he spoke Kiowa, Lakota, and English."

"And the signs," Barnett added. "He taught Ike, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Teaspoon said. "I never seen two friends more like brothers than those two. And I never seen any one person walk two worlds so easily as Buck. Noah couldn't do it. He was too full of anger. He was more like Jimmy than Buck. But Buck was quiet. He listened more than he talked. He watched more than he was seen. Not that he didn't get angry. He could fight when he needed to, better than most. He could be downright vindictive if it got in his head." Teaspoon chuckled a bit. "I never cornered him on it, but I know what he did to that banker's men."

Barnett smiled, too. "What?"

"They humiliated him," Teaspoon told him. "Tarred and feathered him and drug him aways. He caught 'em at night. One he buried to his neck and covered in spiders. The other he hung upside-down over a pit of rattlers."

Barnett's eyebrows rose high enough to tilt his hat back. "And they didn't press charges?"

Teaspoon looked sideways down at him. "Would you?"

Barnett ducked his head. "No, sir. Don't guess I would. I'd hate to think what he'd dream up for me."

"All the other boys had a father, one way or another, good or bad. And you can see it in the way they were raised. They were a little wild when they first came to the Express. But Buck. . . ." He stopped and smiled again. "I think he was the most civilized of the bunch. And that's what most people never looked long enough to see. They see his skin and his hair and they stop there and call him 'savage'." Teaspoon sighed. "If I had to choose only one of those boys and could call him my son, I'd choose Buck. But now I won't get the chance."

Buck felt his throat tighten painfully, and tears welled up in his eyes. He'd never told Teaspoon how he felt like a father to him. He'd never had one to know for sure, but if he had gotten to choose a father from all the men he'd ever met, white or Indian, he would have chosen Teaspoon. And if he chose death now, he'd never have the chance.

Someone knocked on the door and Buck turned to find Ike standing beside him. Jake Matheson's face was peeking in the door. "Teaspoon?" he asked. "Rachel sent me to find you. She thinks it's time."

Teaspoon just nodded. "Thank you, Jake," he said. "Please get the doctor."

Jake tipped his hat and quickly closed the door again. "Rachel's right," Ike said. "It _is_ time."

* * *

TBC


	14. Chapter Fourteen & Epilogue

**The Young Riders**

**The Journey**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Fourteen**

Jenny didn't understand. Ike had brought her to Rock Creek. She thought she had understood why: to bring the dreamcatcher and help Buck to be at peace. But she had also thought it was to help him live. But the doctor said he was dying and, looking at him, she knew it was true. Each breath was shallower than the last, and he was pale beneath the bruises. She felt another tear trickle down her cheek but she didn't bother to wipe it away. There would be more to follow it soon enough.

All that remained of Buck's white family were gathered in the room, and Jenny felt a little out of place. She really had only known him for a week. And they hadn't gotten along for most of that week. But no one had told her to leave or even looked at her as if she didn't belong. So she stayed. She stayed because Buck had been her hope, and he lay dying in a bed not ten feet away.

Teaspoon was closest to the bed. He held Buck's good hand, just as he had at Lathrop's house. Rachel sat closer to his head and gently brushed the hair from his face. Kid and Lou clung to each other and Jimmy stood in the corner with one arm wrapped around himself, like he didn't know what to do. The doctor stood beside Jenny. He couldn't do anything more for Buck than he had already done. He was only waiting now to make Buck's death official.

Someone else was in the room, and seeing him, Jenny realized that no one else did. He stood next to the bed, between Rachel and Teaspoon. His hat was in his hands, leaving his bald head bare. He turned and caught her eye, but she couldn't read his expression. Was it sadness that brought his eyebrows down over his eyes? Was it hope that lifted his head and kept his shoulders high? But what hope? Except that he and Buck would be reunited.

Ike turned back to the bed and Jenny was left to ponder the meaning of everything. Why had Ike brought her to Rock Creek, to Buck? Why had he told her stories and given her hope that she and Buck could have a future together? Why appear to her now if it was all for nothing?

The silence was broken when the door behind her opened. Jake Matheson poked his head in, blushing and pulling at his collar. "I--I'm sorry to interrupt," he said. "But Mr. Tompkins is here."

"Tompkins?!" Jimmy asked, his face tightening in anger. "What's he doing here?"

Jake looked right at Jenny. "He's asking to see you, ma'am."

Jenny closed her eyes. This was not right. Nothing was right. She hadn't planned on seeing her father, not yet. Not until she and Buck had sorted things out. Of course, that wasn't going to happen, and in a small town like this, it was quite impossible to expect that her father wouldn't know she was there.

"I'll take care of it," she whispered as she opened her eyes again and quietly slipped out of the room behind Jake.

Jake moved to the far end of the porch to give her space and Jenny was left face to face with her father.

"Jenny," he said, tilting his head in greeting. He twisted his hat in his hands.

She wasn't angry with him like Jimmy was, but she did have the same question. "What are you doing here?" she asked, not intending for it to sound as blunt as it did.

"The doctor told me he'd seen you," he replied. "I was so surprised. Your Aunt Sarah didn't write to say you were coming."

"I can write for myself," Jenny replied, and then regretted the harsh answer. This just wasn't the time for this discussion. "I didn't tell her I was coming here. I just left."

"Why didn't you come to the store?" he asked.

Jenny swallowed. "I didn't come for you, Father."

Tompkins looked past her to the door. "For him, then?" And Jenny was surprised to not hear any anger from him. She looked toward the door herself, wondering if someone had stepped out behind her when she wasn't watching. But no one was there. If the doctor had told him about her, he'd probably also mentioned Buck.

She nodded. "For Buck."

Tompkins pulled in a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. She could tell he was struggling to say something but she readied herself to defend Buck against whatever he might say.

"He sent for you?"

"I asked him if I could come."

"What did he say?"

"He was coming to meet me in St. Joe. He didn't make it." She hoped he'd leave it at that. She didn't think he'd believe her about Ike the way Teaspoon had.

Tompkins' held her in his gaze. "I'm sorry," he said, and it was the same thing he said, the same voice he said it with, when her her mother died. "We didn't ever get along real well, he and I, but I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

More tears spilled from her eyes onto her cheeks at the sincerity in his tone. "And if he had lived?" she asked, this time not accusing, but hoping he would give her a good answer, evidence of a changed heart.

"If you were happy," he said. "I supposed I'd have to get used to him. If it means you'll stay and be in my life again, I can get used to anything."

She couldn't hold back the sob anymore and she quickly crossed the few steps between them. He took the cue and held out his arms and wrapped her in them, offering a comfort she hadn't known she'd needed. No one had hugged her since Buck. She hadn't let her father and Aunt Sarah had never tried. In his arms, she felt her mother, gone from her for so long. He rocked her slowly back and forth as she cried.

But after a few moments, she took a deep breath to stop her sobs. "Papa," she whispered into his shoulder. "I need to be there."

He pulled back and held her out with his arms. "I'll be out here waiting."

She offered him a small smile and turned back to the door.

* * *

Buck didn't notice Jenny slipping back inside. He hadn't noticed her stepping out. He lay still upon the bed, eyes closed and unmoving. There was no light, no dark, no heat, no cold. If he felt anything at all, it was as if he were floating on a calm, slow-moving stream: a constant current of pain beyond his awareness.

His chest rose in slight movements, pulling little slips of air into his battered lungs then pushing it back out again. Each breath was smaller than the last, until, finally, it was the last. The stream stilled and Buck floated above it, free at last from the pain of life.

But there was sound. One voice reached through the void. A voice he knew and trusted. Ike's voice. "Open your eyes."

And he did. Ike leaned over him and offered a soft, sympathetic smile. He brought his hands up to his chest and moved them. Buck heard the word even though Ike's lips had not moved. "Breathe."

Because this was what he had chosen, he obeyed. And with that first shaky breath, all the pain came rushing back to him a flood along the stream. Ike's hands moved again. "You're not alone."

"Buck?!" Lou gasped, and Buck became aware of the room and the other people in it. His friends. His family.

A hand squeezed his and Buck looked down to see the look of wonder on Teaspoon's face. Buck folded his own fingers around the older man's and felt them solid and whole.

The pain was incredible and it rolled over him in waves. It frightened him to think of the consequences of his choice. But he looked into the faces of the people around him and realized he'd never before seen so many caring faces at one time sharing their concern for him. He was loved and he loved in return, and that realization was worth the pain. Red Bear was right. There was also joy.

Ike's smile widened. He knew. But there was a mischievous gleam in his eye that confused Buck. He took his hand from Teaspoon's, wanting to ask but not sure yet that he could use his voice. But Ike faded away like a wind on the plains.

In his place was a dream. A beautiful woman with long blond hair and tears in her eyes. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and smiled.

"You came?" he breathed, forgetting that he couldn't talk. He gently brought his hand to her face.

She took his hand and held it to her cheek. "Ike brought me," she said.

Buck smiled. "He brought me, too."

**Epilogue**

"Emma!"

Emma pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes with a wet hand. "In here, Sam!" Hannah burbled and flailed her little arms in the water, splashing the front of Emma's dress.

Sam came in behind her and Emma offered him a smile before she turned her attention back to bathing their daughter. "We got a letter from Rock Creek," he said and Emma's smile faded. She had almost forgotten the experience in the church, but she had dreaded getting a letter like the one about Ike.

"Who's it from?" she asked, just managing to keep her voice steady.

"It don't say," Sam answered, "and I don't recognize the writing."

Emma kept her eyes on the baby and her hands moving to wash her. "Read it out, Sam."

She heard him tear the envelope and unfold the paper. And then she heard his voice and the words he spoke made her legs weak.

"'Dear Emma,

'You were right. It was me and it was bad. I can't even write this letter as my left wrist was broken. Jenny Tompkins has been kind enough to write my words. Maybe someday I'll be able to tell you what happened, but even thinking of it fills me with a fear I can't control. I will be a long time healing from this, and probably a long time learning to trust again. But I will heal, and I have a start on the trust. You are part of that.

'I can tell you that I was left with a difficult choice. I could have let go of this life and missed its joys and beauty. I chose instead to endure the pain, to live, to pay for that joy with hardship. I woke up to see more people loving me than ever before in my life and I have to think it's not too high a price.

'You were one of those people, though you weren't there in the room. You were in the church, praying for me before you even knew I was in danger. Your face, even the memory of it, reminds me that this world isn't wholly made of cruelty and hatred.

'Thank you, Emma. And Sam, too. I will stay here, with Teaspoon, while I can, but someday this world may push me to seek you out as a haven in the storm. Your offer is precious to me.

'With love, Running Buck Cross.'"

Emma lifted Hannah from the water and sat down right on the floor. "Buck? How?" She looked to Sam for an answer, but he had none to offer. "How did he know?"

"There's more," he said, holding the paper out for her to see.

She read it for herself.

'P.S. Hannah is a beautiful baby.'

The End  
copyright 2003 Gabrielle Lawson


End file.
